Slip  g.  B.  Hill  IGtbrara 


JJarth  (Carolina  ^tatp  MmoprBttj} 

QH81 
B925 


^v*"' 


4 


>  • 


I 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  DATE 
INDICATED  BELOW  AND  IS  SUB- 
JECT  TO  AN  OVERDUE  FINE  AS 
POSTED  AT  THE  CIRCULATION 
DESK. 


lOOM/5-79 


^ootifi  bp  Soljn  ^urrouffljfi 


WORKS,  iq  vols.,  uniform,  i6mo,  with  frontispiece,  gi-l 
top. 

Wakh-Robin. 

Winter  Sunshine. 

Locusts  and  Wild  Honhv. 

Fresh  Fields. 

Indoor  Studies. 

Birds  and  Poets,  with  Other  Papers. 

Phpacton,  and  Other  Sketches. 

Signs  and  Seasons. 

RlVBRBY. 

Whitman  :  A  Study. 

The  Light  of  Day. 

Literary  Values. 

Far  and  Near. 

Ways  of  Nature, 

Leaf  and  Tkndril. 

Time  and  Change. 

The  Summit  of  the  Years. 

The  Breath  of  Life. 

Under  the  Apple-Trees. 

Field  and  S'tudy. 

FIELD  AND   STUDY.     Riverside  Edition. 

UNDER  THE  APPLE-TREES.     Riverside  Edition. 

THE   BREATH   OF   LIFE.     Riverside  Edition. 

THE  SUMMITOFTHE  YEARS.     Riverside  Edition. 

TIME    AND    CHANGE.     Riverside  Edition. 

LEAF    AND    TENDRIL.     R iverside  Edition . 

WAYS    OF    NATURE.     Riverside  Edition. 

FAR    AND    NEAR.     Riverside  Edition. 

LITERARY  VALUES.     Riverside  Edition. 

THE    LIGHT    OF    DAY.     Riverside  Edition. 

WHITMAN:    A  Study.     Riverside  Edition. 

A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS.  Selections  appropriate 
to  each  season  of  the  year,  from  the  writings  of  John 
Burroughs.  Illustrated  from  Photographs  by  Clif- 
ton Johnson. 

IN  THE  CAT  SKILLS.  Illustrated  from  Photographs 
by  Clifton  Johnson. 

CAMPING    AND    TRAMP.  JG    WITH     ROOSEVELT 
Illustrated  from   Photographs. 

BIRD    AND    BOUGH.     Poems. 

WINTER    SUNSHINE.     Ca mbridge  Classics  Series. 

WAKE- ROBIN.     Riverside  A Idine  Series. 

SQUIRRELS  AND  OTHER  FUR-BEARERS.  Illus- 
trated. 

BIRD    STORIES   FROM    BURROUGHS.     Illustrated. 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 
Boston  and  New  York 


JOHN    BURROUGHS    IN    HIS   STUDY 


FAR  AND  NEAR 


BY 


JOHN   BURROUGHS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT    190I    BY    EDWARD   H.    HARRIMAN 

COPYRIGHT    1904   BY  JOHN   BURROUGHS 

ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


Published  October  iQ04 


Af 


Ss   ^- 


PREFACE 

In  the  preface  to  "  Riverby  "  I  told  my  readers 
that  that  was  probably  my  last  out-door  book.  But 
my  life  has  gone  on,  my  love  of  nature  has  con- 
tinued, my  habit  of  observation  has  been  kept  up, 
and  the  combined  result  is  another  collection  of 
papers  dealing  with  the  old,  inexhaustible,  open- 
air  themes.  There  may  even  be  another  volume  in 
the  course  of  the  following  year. 

The  only  part  of  the  present  collection  that  has 
not  been  in  print  before  is  the  chapter  on  Jamaica. 
The  account  of  the  trip  to  Alaska  originally  ap- 
peared in  the  first  volume  of  the  "  Harriman  Alaska 
Expedition,"  published  by  Messrs.  Doubleday,  Page 
&  Co.  in  1901,  where  it  was  profusely  illustrated 
by  text  cuts,  full-page  photogravures,  and  colored 
plates.  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Harriman  and  to  the 
publishers  named  for  permission  to  use  it  in  this 
collection. 

August  1,  1904:. 


12695 


CONTENTS 


FAOB 

I.   In  Green  Alaska  : 

CROSSING   THE   CONTINENT 1 

SHOSHONE   FALLS    AND    CANYON          ...  9 

MULTNOMAH    FALLS 18 

THE   INLAND    PASSAGE 20 

METLAKAHTLA 29 

WRANGELL   AND   JUNEAU              ....  32 

LYNN   CANAL   AND    SKAGWAY          ....  35 

WHITE   PASS 36 

SITKA ^3 

IN   YAKUTAT   BAY 56 

PRINCE   WILLIAM    SOUND 66 

HARRIMAN   FIORD 75 

KADIAK 81 

TO   THE    OREGON   ROBIN    IN    ALASKA  (verse)  89 

TO   THE   LAPLAND    LONGSPUR   (verse)          .            .  99 

THE   SEAL  ISLANDS 1^3 

SIBERIA 1^' 

PORT   CLARENCE          .           .           .           •           •           •  H^ 

ST.    LAWRENCE   ISLAND H* 

HALL   AND   ST.    MATTHEW   ISLANDS              .  US 

THE   RETURN    TRIP          .            .            •            •            •            .  l-^; 

ST.   ELIAS    AND   THE    FAIRWEATHER   RANGE        .  125 

V 


CONTENTS 

II.   Wild  Life  about  my  Cabin      .        .        .  131 

III.  New  Gleanings  in  Old  Fields    .        .        .  157 

IV.  Bird  Life  in  Winter         .        .        .        .  173 
V.   A  Birds'  Free  Lunch 183 

VI.   Two  Birds'-Nests 191 

VIL   August  Days 201 

VIII.   Babes  in  the  Woods         ....  215 

IX.   A  Lost  February 223 

Index    ....,..•  279 


FAR   AND   NEAR 


FAR  AND  NEAR 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

CROSSING   THE   CONTINENT 

IT  was  my  good  fortune  during  the  summer  of 
1899  to  be  one  of  a  party  of  upwards  of  forty 
persons  whom  E.  H.  Harriman  of  New  York  invited 
to  be  his  guests  on  a  trip  to  Alaska.  The  expedition 
was  known  as  the  Harriman  Alaska  Expedition, 
and  its  object  was  to  combine  pleasure  with  scien- 
tific research  and  exploration.  The  party  embraced 
a  number  of  college  professors,  several  specialists 
from  the  biological  and  geological  surveys  of  the 
Government  at  Washington,  two  or  three  well- 
known  artists,  as  many  literary  men,  a  mining 
expert,  and  several  friends  and  relatives  of  Mr. 
Harriman. 

We  left  New  York  on  the  afternoon  of  May  23, 
in  a  special  train  of  palace  cars,  and  took  ship  at 
Seattle  the  last  day  of  the  month.  All  west  of  the 
Mississippi  was  new  land  to  me,  and  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  it.    Throughout  the  prairie  region,  as 

I 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

O  farmer,  I  rejoiced  in  the  endless  vistas  of  beauti- 
ful fertile  farms,  all  busy  with  the  spring  planting, 
and  reaching  from  horizon  to  horizon  of  our  flying 
train.  As  a  home-body  and  lover  of  the  cosy  and 
I)ictures(|ue,  I  recoiled  from  the  bald  native  farm- 
houses with  their  unkempt  surroundings,  their  rude 
sheds  and  black  muddy  barnyards.  As  one  goes 
West,  nature  is  more  and  more,  and  man  less  and 
less.  In  New  England  one  is  surprised  to  see 
such  busy,  thriving  towns  and  such  inviting  coun- 
try homes  amid  a  landscape  so  bleak  and  barren. 
In  the  West,  on  the  contrary,  his  surprise  is  that  such 
oj)ulence  of  nature  should  be  attended  by  such 
sfjualor  and  makeshift  in  the  farm  buildings  and 
rural  villages.  Of  course  the  picturesque  is  not  an 
element  of  the  Western  landscape  as  it  is  of  the  East- 
ern. The  predominant  impression  is  that  of  utility. 
Its  beauty  is  the  beauty  of  utility.  One  does  not 
say,  what  a  beautiful  view,  but,  what  beautiful 
farms  ;  not,  what  an  attractive  home,  but,  what 
a  superb  field  of  corn,  or  wheat,  or  oats,  or  barley. 
The  crops  and  the  herds  suggest  a  bounty  and  a 
fertility  that  are  marvelous,  but  the  habitations 
for  the  most  part  look  starved  and  impoverished. 
The  country  roads  are  either  merely  dusty  or  black 
muddy  bands,  stretching  across  the  open  land  with- 
out variety  and  without  interest.  As  one's  eye  grows 
fatigued  with  the  monotony,  the  thought  comes  to 
him  of  what  terrible  homesickness  the  first  settlers 

2 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

on  the  prairies  from  New  England,  New  York,  or 
Pennsylvania  must  have  suffered.  Their  hearts  did 
not  take  root  here.  They  did  not  build  them- 
selves homes,  they  built  themselves  shelters.  Their 
descendants  are  trying  here  and  there  to  build 
homes,  trying  by  tree  planting  and  other  devices 
to  give  an  air  of  seclusion  and  domesticity  to  their 
dwellings.  But  the  problem  is  a  hard  one.  Nature 
here  seems  to  covet  the  utmost  publicity.  The  farm- 
ers must  build  lower  and  more  rambling  houses, 
cultivate  more  grassy  lanes,  plant  longer  avenues  of 
trees,  and  not  let  the  disheveled  straw-stacks  dom- 
inate the  scene.  As  children  we  loved  to  sit  on  the 
laps  of  our  fathers  and  mothers,  and  as  children  of 
a  larger  and  older  growth  we  love  the  lap  of  mother 
earth,  some  secluded  nook,  some  cosy  corner,  where 
we  can  nestle  and  feel  the  sheltering  arm  of  the  near 
horizon  about  us. 

After  one  reaches  the  more  arid  regions  beyond 
the  Rockies,  what  pitiful  farm  homes  he  sees  here 
and  there,  —  a  low  one-room  building  made  of 
hewn  logs,  the  joints  plastered  with  mud,  a  flat 
mud  roof,  a  forlorn-looking  woman  with  children 
about  her  standing  in  the  doorway,  a  rude  canopy 
of  brush  or  cornstalks  upheld  by  poles  for  shed  and 
outbuildings  ;  not  a  tree,  not  a  shrub  near  ;  a  few 
acres  of  green  irrigated  land  not  far  off,  but  the  hills 
and  mountains  around  bare,  brown,  and  forbid- 
ding.    We  saw  hundreds  of  such  homes  in  Utah, 

3 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

Idaho,  and  Oregon,  and  they  afTected  me  Hke  a 
niirhtniare. 

A  night's  run  west  of  Omaha  a  change  comes 
over  the  spirit  of  nature's  dream.  We  have  entered 
upon  that  sea  of  vast  rolhng  phuns;  agriculture  is 
left  behind ;  these  gentle  slopes  and  dimpled  valleys 
are  innocent  of  the  plow;  herds  of  grazing  cattle 
and  horses  are  seen  here  and  there;  now  and  then  a 
coyote  trots  away  with  feigned  indifference  from  the 
train,  looking  like  a  gray,  homeless,  sheep-killing 
shepherd  dog  ;  at  long  intervals  a  low  hut  or  cabin, 
looking  very  forlorn;  sometimes  a  wagon- track  leads 
away  and  disappears  over  the  treeless  hills.  How 
I  wanted  to  stop  the  train  and  run  out  over  those 
vast  grassy  billows  and  touch  and  taste  this  un- 
familiar nature!  Here  in  the  early  morning  I  heard 
my  first  western  meadowlark.  The  liquid,  gurgling 
song  filtered  in  through  the  roar  of  the  rushing  train. 
It  was  very  sweet  and  novel,  and  made  me  wish 
more  than  ever  to  call  a  halt  and  gain  the  wild  still- 
ness of  the  hills  and  plains,  but  it  contained  no  sug- 
gestion of  the  meadowlark  I  knew.  I  saw  also  the 
horned  lark  and  the  black  and  white  lark  bunting 
from  the  car  window. 

Presently  another  change  comes  over  the  scene: 
we  see  the  Rockies  faint  and  shadowv  in  the  far 
distance,  their  snow-clad  summits  ghostly  and  dim; 
the  traveler  crosses  them  on  the  Union  Pacific  al- 
most before  he  is  aware  of  it.    He  expects  a  nearer 

4 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

view,  but  does  not  get  it.  Their  distant  snow-capped 
peaks  rise  up,  or  bow  down,  or  ride  slowly  along  the 
horizon  afar  off.  They  seem  to  elude  him;  he  can- 
not get  near  them  ;  they  flee  away  or  cautiously 
work  around  him.  At  one  point  we  seemed  for  hours 
approaching  the  Elk  Mountains,  which  stood  up 
sharp  and  white  against  the  horizon;  but  a  spell 
was  upon  us,  or  upon  them,  for  we  circled  and 
circled  till  we  left  them  behind.  A  vast  treeless 
country  is  a  strange  spectacle  to  Eastern  eyes.  This 
absence  of  trees  seems  in  some  way  to  add  to  the 
youthfulness  of  the  landscape;  it  is  like  the  face 
of  a  beardless  boy.  Trees  and  forests  make  the 
earth  look  as  if  it  had  attained  its  majority;  they 
give  a  touch  like  that  of  the  mane  to  the  lion  or 
the  beard  to  the  man. 

In  crossing  the  continent  this  youthfulness  of  the 
land,  or  even  its  femininity,  is  at  times  a  marked 
feature.  The  face  of  the  plains  in  Wyoming  sug- 
gests our  Eastern  meadows  in  early  spring,  —  the 
light  gray  of  the  stubble,  with  a  tinge  of  green  be- 
neath. All  the  lines  are  gentle,  all  the  tints  are  soft 
The  land  looks  as  if  it  must  have  fattened  innu- 
merable herds.  Probably  the  myriads  of  buffaloes 
grazing  here  for  centuries  have  left  their  mark  upon 
it.  The  hills  are  almost  as  plump  and  muttony  in 
places  as  the  South  Downs  of  England. 

I  recall  a  fine  spectacle  on  the  Laramie  plains :  a 
vast  green  area,  miles  and  miles  in  extent,  dotted 

5 


FAR   AKD    near 

with  thousands  of  cattle,  one  of  the  finest  rural  pic- 
lures  I  ever  saw.  It  looked  like  an  olive  green  velvet 
carpet,  so  soft  and  pleasing  was  it  to  the  eye,  and 
the  cattle  were  disposed  singly  or  in  groups  as  an 
artist  would  have  placed  them.  Rising  up  behind  it 
and  finishing  the  picture  was  a  jagged  line  of  snow- 
covered  mountains.  Presently  the  sagebrush  took 
the  place  of  grass  and  another  change  occurred ;  still 
the  lines  of  the  landscape  were  flowing  and  the  tints 
soft.  The  sagebrush  is  like  the  sage  of  the  garden 
grown  woody  and  aspiring  to  be  a  bush  three  or 
four  feet  hiffh.  It  is  the  nearest  that  nature  comes 
to  the  arboreal  beard  on  these  great  elevated  plains. 
Shave  it  away,  and  the  earth  beneath  is  as  smooth 
as  a  bov's  cheek. 

Before  we  get  out  of  Wyoming  this  youthfulness 
of  nature  gives  place  to  mere  newness,  —  raw,  tur- 
bulent, forbidding,  almost  chaotic.  The  landscape 
suggests  the  dumping-ground  of  creation,  where  all 
the  refuse  has  been  gathered.  What  one  sees  at 
home  in  a  clay-bank  by  the  roadside  on  a  scale  of 
a  few  feet,  he  sees  here  on  a  scale  of  hundreds  and 
thousands  of  feet,  —  the  erosions  and  the  sculptur- 
ing of  a  continent,  vast,  titanic  ;  mountain  ranges, 
like  newly  piled  earth  from  some  globe-piercing 
mine  shaft,  all  furrowed  and  carved  by  the  elements, 
as  if  in  yesterday's  rainfall.  It  all  has  a  new,  transi- 
tory look.  Buttes  or  table  mountains  stand  up  here 
and  there  like  huge  earth  stumps. 

6 


IN   GREEN   ALASKA 

Along  Green  River  one  sees  where  Nature  begins 
to  dream  of  the  great  canyon  of  the  Colorado. 
Throughout  a  vast  stretch  of  country  here  her  one 
thought  seems  to  be  of  canyons.  You  see  them 
on  every  hand,  little  and  big,  —  deep,  rectangular 
grooves  sunk  in  the  plain,  sides  perpendicular, 
bottom  level,  all  the  lines  sharp  and  abrupt.  All 
the  little  dry  water-courses  are  canyons,  the  depth 
and  breadth  being  about  equal ;  the  streams  have 
no  banks,  only  perpendicular  walls.  Southward 
these  features  become  more  and  more  pronounced 
till  the  stupendous  canyon  of  the  Colorado  in  Ari- 
zona is  reached. 

On  our  return  in  August  we  struck  this  formation 
in  the  Bad  Lands  of  Utah,  where  our  train  was 
stalled  a  day  and  a  half  by  a  washout.  In  the  Bad 
Lands  the  earth  seems  to  have  been  flayed  alive, 
—  no  skin  or  turf  of  verdure  or  vegetable  mould  any- 
where, —  all  raw  and  quivering.  The  country  looks 
as  if  it  might  have  been  the  site  of  enormous  brick- 
yards ;  over  hundreds  of  square  miles  the  clay  seems 
to  have  been  used  up  to  the  depth  of  fifty  or  a  hun- 
dred feet,  leaving  a  floor  much  worn  and  grooved  by 
the  elements.  The  mountains  have  been  carved 
and  sliced  but  yesterday,  showing  enormous  trans- 
verse sections.  Indeed,  never  before  have  I  seen 
the  earth  so  vivisected,  anatomized,  gashed,  —  the 
cuts  all  fresh,  the  hills  looking  as  new  and  red  as 
butcher's  meat,  the  strata  almost   bleeding.     The 

7 


FAR    AND   NEAR 

red  and  angry  torrent  of  Price  River,  a  mountain 
brook  of  licjuid  mud  near  which  we  lay,  was  quite 
in  keeping  with  the  scene.  How  staid  and  settled 
and  old  Nature  looks  in  the  Atlantic  States,  with 
her  clear  streams,  her  rounded  hills,  her  forests,  her 
lichen-covered  rocks,  her  neutral  tints,  in  contrast 
with  large  sections  of  the  Rocky  Mountain  region. 
In  the  East  the  great  god  Erosion  has  almost  done 
his  w^ork,  —  the  grading  and  shaping  of  the  land- 
scape has  long  since  been  finished,  the  seeding  and 
planting  are  things  of  the  remote  past,  —  but  in  this 
part  of  the  West  it  is  still  the  heat  of  the  day  with 
him;  we  surprise  his  forces  with  shovels  and  piclvs 
yet  in  hand,  as  it  were,  and  the  spectacle  is  strange 
indeed  and  in  many  ways  repellent.  In  places,  the 
country  looks  as  if  all  the  railroad  forces  of  the 
world  might  have  been  turned  loose  to  delve  and 
rend  and  pile  in  some  mad,  insane  carnival  and 
debauch. 

In  crossing  the  Rockies  I  had  my  first  ride  upon 
the  cowcatcher,  or  rather  upon  the  bench  of  the 
engine  immediately  above  it.  In  this  position  one 
gets  a  much  more  vivid  sense  of  the  perils  that  en- 
compass the  flying  train  than  he  does  from  the  car 
window.  The  book  of  fate  is  rapidly  laid  bare  be- 
fore him  and  he  can  scan  every  line,  while  from 
his  comfortable  seat  in  the  car  he  sees  little  more 
than  the  margin  of  the  page.  From  the  engine  he 
reads  the  future  and  the  immediate.    From  the  cai 

8 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

window  he  is  more  occupied  with  the  distant  and 
the  past.  How  rapidly  those  two  slender  steel  rails 
do  spin  beneath  us,  and  how  inadequate  they 
seem  to  sustain  and  guide  this  enormous  throbbing 
and  roaring  monster  which  we  feel  laboring  and 
panting  at  our  backs.  The  rails  seem  ridiculously 
small  and  slender  for  such  a  task  ;  surely,  they 
will  bend  and  crumple  up  or  be  torn  from  the  ties. 
The  peril  seems  imminent,  and  it  is  some  time  be- 
fore one  gets  over  the  feeling.  During  this  ride  of 
twenty-five  miles  we  struck  two  birds  —  horned 
larks  —  and  barely  missed  several  mourning  doves. 
A  big  hawk  sat  on  the  ground  near  the  track  eating 
some  small  animal,  probably  a  ground  squirrel. 
He  was  startled  by  our  sudden  approach,  and  in 
flying  across  the  track  came  so  near  being  hit  by 
the  engine  that  he  was  frightened  into  dropping  his 
quarry.  Later  in  the  day  others  of  the  party  rode 
upon  the  front  of  the  engine,  and  each  saw  birds 
struck  and  killed  by  it.  The  one  ever-present  bird 
across  the  continent,  even  in  the  most  desolate  places, 
is  the  mourning  dove.  From  Indiana  to  Oregon, 
at  almost  any  moment,  these  doves  may  be  seen  fly- 
ing away  from  the  train. 

SHOSHONE  FALLS  AND  CANYON 

The  fourth  day  from  home  we  reached  the  great 
plains  of  the  Snake  River  in  southern  Idaho,  and 
stopped  at  Shoshone  to  visit  the  Shoshone  Falls. 

9 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

Mr.  Ilarriman  had  telegraphed  ahead  to  have 
means  of  transportation  in  reachness  to  take  us  to 
the  falls,  twenty-five  miles  to  the  south  across  the 
sagebrush  plains.  Hence  when  we  awoke  at  Sho- 
shone in  the  early  morning,  we  found  a  nondescript 
collection  of  horses  and  vehicles  awaiting  us,  — 
buggies,  buckboards,  market  wagons,  and  one  old 
Concord  four-horse  stage,  besides  a  group  of  saddle- 
horses  for  those  who  were  equal  to  this  mode  of 
travel.  The  day  was  clear  and  cool,  and  the  spirits 
of  the  party  ran  high.  That  ride  over  the  vast  sage- 
brush plain  in  the  exhilarating  air,  under  the  novel 
conditions  and  in  the  early  honeymoon  of  our 
journey,  —  who  of  us  can  ever  forget  it  ?  My  seat 
happened  to  be  beside  the  driver  on  top  of  the  old 
stage-coach,  and  we  went  swinging  and  rocking  over 
the  plain  in  the  style  in  w^hich  I  made  my  first 
journey  amid  the  Catskills  in  my  youth.  But  how 
tame  were  the  Catskills  of  memory  in  comparison 
with  the  snow-capped  ranges  that  bounded  our  hori- 
zon fifty  or  a  hundred  miles  away  :  to  the  north 
the  Saw  Tooth  Range  and  "  Old  Soldier,"  wdiite  as 
a  snow-bank  ;  to  the  southeast  the  Goose  Creek 
Range;  and  to  the  south  the  Humboldts,  far  away 
in  Nevada.  Our  course  lay  across  w^hat  was  once  a 
sea  of  molten  lava.  Our  geologists  said  that  some 
time  in  the  remote  past  the  crust  of  the  earth  here 
had  probably  cracked  over  a  wude  area,  allowing 
the  molten  lava  to  flow  up  through  it,  like  water 

10 


IN   GREEN   ALASKA 

through  rents  in  the  ice,  and  inundate  thousands  of 
square  miles  of  surface,  extending  even  to  the  Co- 
lumbia, three  hundred  miles  distant.    This  old  lava 
bed  is  now  an  undulating  sagebrush  plain,  appear- 
ing here  and  there  in  broken,  jagged  outcroppings, 
or  in  broad,  flat  plates  like  a  dark,  cracked  pave- 
ment still  in  place,  though  partly  hidden  under  a 
yellowish  brown  soil.  The  road  was  a  crooked  one, 
but  fairly  good.     Its  course  far  ahead  was  often 
marked  to  us  by  a  red  line  visible  here  and  there 
upon  the  dull  green  plain.    Flowers,  flowers  every- 
where under  the  sagebrush,  covered  the  ground. 
The  effect  was  as  of  a  rough  garment  with  a  thin, 
many-colored  silk  lining.    Great  patches  of  lupine, 
then  the  delicate  fresh  bloom  of  a  species  of  phlox, 
then  larkspur,  then   areas   of  white,   yellow,   and 
purple  flowers  of  many  kinds.    It  is  a  surprise  to 
Eastern  eyes  to  see  a  land  without  turf,  yet  so  dotted 
with  vegetation.   It  is  as  if  all  these  things  grew  in  a 
plowed  field,  or  in  the  open  road ;  the  bare  soil  is 
everywhere  visible  around  them.    The  bunch  grass 
does  not  make  a  turf,  but  grows  in  scattered  tufts 
like  bunches  of  green  bristles.   Nothing  is  crowded. 
Every  shrub  and  flower  has  a  free  space  about  it. 
The    horsemen    and    horsewomen    careered  gayly 
ahead,  or  lingered  behind,  resting  and  botanizing 
amid  the  brush.  The  dust  from  the  leading  vehicles 
was  seen  rising  up  miles  in  advance.    We  saw  an 
occasional  coyote  slink  away  amid  the  sagebruish. 

11 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

Dark-cared  and  dark-tailed  gray  hares  l)oiinded 
away  or  eyed  us  from  cover.  Horned  larks  were 
common,  and  the  sage  s})arrow,  the  meadowlark, 
and  other  birds  were  seen  and  heard. 

Shoshone  Falls  are  in  Snake  River,  which  later  on 
becomes  the  Columbia.  The  river  does  not  flow  in 
a  valley  like  our  Eastern  rivers,  but  in  walled  can- 
yons which  it  has  cut  into  the  lava  plain  to  the  depth 
of  nearly  a  thousand  feet.  The  only  sign  we  could 
see  of  it,  when  ten  miles  away,  was  a  dark  heavy 
line  here  and  there  on  the  green  purple  plain,  the 
opposite  rim  of  the  great  gorge. 

Near  noon  we  reached  a  break,  a  huge  gateway, 
in  the  basaltic  rocks,  and  were  upon  the  brink  of  the 
canvon  itself.  It  was  a  sudden  vision  of  elemental 
grandeur  and  power  opening  up  at  our  feet.  Our 
eyes  had  been  reveling  in  purple  distances,  in  the 
soft  tints  of  the  sagebrush  plain,  and  in  the  flowers 
and  long,  gentle,  flowing  hills,  when  suddenly  the 
earth  opened  and  we  looked  into  a  rocky  chasm 
nearly  a  thousand  feet  deep,  with  the  river  and  the 
falls  roaring  at  the  bottom  of  it.  The  grand,  the 
terrible,  the  sublime  were  sprung  upon  us  in  a  twin- 
kling. The  chasm  is  probably  a  mile  or  more  broad, 
with  perpendicular  sides  of  toppling  columnar  lava 
eight  hundred  feet  high.  A  roadway,  carved  out  of 
the  avalanches  of  loose  rocks  that  hang  upon  the 
sides  of  the  awful  gulf,  winds  down  to  the  river  and 
to  the  cable  ferry  above  the  falls.    Our  party,  in 

12 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

detached  groups,  made  slow  progress  down  to  this 
ferry,  there  was  so  much  to  arrest  and  fascinate  the 
attention.  The  new,  strange  birds,  such  as  the 
white-throated  swift,  the  violet-backed  swallow  ; 
the  strange  and  beautiful  wild  flowers  in  the  rocks  ; 
the  rocks  themselves  in  towering  six-sided  col- 
umns, the  spray  from  the  falls  below  us  rising  up 
over  the  chasm,  —  these  and  other  features  made 
us  tarry  long  by  the  way. 

In  order  to  get  to  the  front  of  the  falls  and  pluck 
out  the  heart  of  the  sublimity,  the  traveler  must 
cross  to  the  south  side  of  the  river,  at  this  point  less 
than  half  a  mile  wide.  Here  the  shore  recedes  in 
broad,  irregular  terraces,  upon  one  of  which  stands 
a  comfortable  summer  hotel.  Scaling  slippery  and 
perilous  rocky  points  near  it,  we  stood  on  the  very 
brink  of  the  chasm  and  took  our  fill  of  the  awful 
and  the  sublime  as  born  of  cliff  and  cataract.  We 
clung  to  stretched  ropes  and  wires  and  peered  down 
into  the  abyss.  Elemental  displays  on  such  a  scale 
crowd  all  trivial  and  personal  thoughts  out  of  the 
mind  of  the  beholder.  It  is  salutary  to  look  upon 
them  occasionally,  if  only  to  winnow  out  of  our  minds 
the  dust  and  chaff  of  the  petty  affairs  of  the  day,  and 
feel  the  awe  and  hush  that  come  over  the  spirit  in 
the  presence  of  such  sublimity. 

Shoshone  Falls  are  probably  second  only  to  Ni- 
agara, —  less  in  volume,  but  of  greater  height  and 
far  more  striking  and  picturesque  in  setting.    In- 

13 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

deed,  ihey  are  a  sort  of  double  Nia<i;ara,  one  of  rocks 
and  one  of  water,  and  liie  beholder  hardly  knows 
wliich  is  the  more  impressive.  The  river  above  the 
main  fall  is  split  up  into  several  strands  by  isolated 
masses  of  towering  rocks  ;  each  of  these  strands 
ends  in  a  beautiful  fall,  forty  or  fifty  feet  in  hei<.dit; 
then  the  several  currents  unite  for  the  final  plunge 
down  a  precipice  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet. 
To  get  a  different,  and  if  possible  a  closer  view  of 
the  falls,  we  climbed  down  the  side  of  the  chasm, 
by  means  of  ladders  and  footsteps  cut  in  the  rock 
and  soil,  to  the  margin  of  the  river  below.  Here  we 
did  homage  at  the  foot  of  the  grand  spectacle  and 
gazed  upward  into  its  awful  face.  The  canyon 
below  the  falls  is  so  broad  that  the  river  has  an  easy 
egress,  hence  there  is  nothing  of  that  terrible  agony 
upon  the  face  of  the  waters  that  we  see  in  the  gorge 
below  Niagara.  Niagara  is  much  the  more  impos- 
ing spectacle.  Shoshone  is  the  more  ideal  and 
poetic.  It  is  a  fall  from  an  abyss  into  a  deeper  abyss. 
A  few  miles  below  the  falls  are  still  other  wonders 
in  the  shape  of  underground  rivers  which  leap  out 
of  huge  openings  in  the  side  of  the  canyon,  —  a 
subterranean  water  system  cut  across  by  a  larger 
river.  The  streams  that  emerge  in  this  dramatic 
manner  arc  doubtless  the  same  that  suddenly  take 
to  earth  far  to  the  northward.  Why  they  also  did 
not  cut  canyons  in  the  plain  is  an  interesting  prob- 
lem. 

14 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

In  the  trees  about  the  hamlet  of  Shoshone  I  first 
made  acquaintance  with  the  house  finch,  a  bird 
with  quivering  flight  and  bright,  cheery  song.  It 
suggests  our  purple  finch,  and  seems  to  be  as  much 
of  a  house  and  home  bird  as  is  the  ugly  English 
sparrow.  The  Arkansas  flycatcher  also  was  com- 
mon here,  taking  the  place  of  our  kingbird. 

In  Idaho  we  reach  a  land  presided  over  by  the 
goddess  Irrigation.  Here  she  has  made  the  desert 
bloom  as  the  rose.  We  see  her  servitors  even  in  the 
streets  of  large  towns,  in  the  shape  of  great  w^ater- 
wheels  turned  by  the  current,  out  of  which  they 
lift  v/ater  up  into  troughs  that  distribute  it  right 
and  left  into  orchards  and  gardens.  Here  may  the 
dwellers  well  say  with  the  Psalmist,  "  I  will  lift  up 
mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,  from  whence  cometh  my 
help." 

The  Oregon  Short  Line  Railroad  takes  the  gen- 
eral direction  of  the  old  Oregon  trail  along  Snake 
River  through  Idaho  and  Oregon.  It  is  a  treeless 
country,  save  for  the  hand  of  man  and  the  water 
from  the  hills.  Vast  patches  of  the  original  sage- 
brush alternate  with  vineyards  and  orchards,  — 
orchards  of  peaches,  prunes,  and  apricots,  —  or 
with  meadows  and  grain-fields.  Where  the  irrigat- 
ing-ditch  can  be  carried,  there  the  earth  is  clothed 
with  grass  or  grain  or  verdure.  Baptize  the  savage 
sagebrush  plain  with  w^ater  and  it  becomes  a  Chris- 
tian orchard   and  wheatfield.     Now  we  begin    to 

15 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

see  magpies  from  the  car  windows,  —  twinkling 
black  and  white  wings  and  a  long-tailed  body. 
Lorabardy  poplars  stand  like  rows  of  sentinels 
around  the  lonely  farmhouses.  These  trees  appear 
to  be  the  only  ones  planted  in  this  section.  The 
near-by  foothills  are  of  a  yellowish  earth  color, 
speckled  as  a  thrush's  breast  with  sagebrush.  In 
other  places  lupine  and  wild  sunflowers  cover  the 
land  for  miles,  the  latter  giving  a  touch  of  gold  to 
the  hills. 

After  vSnake  River  escapes  from  the  deep  lava 
canyon  of  Shoshone  Falls,  it  flows  for  many  miles 
between  level  banks,  with  here  and  there  a  slowly 
turning  irrigating-wheel  lifting  the  water  up  to  be 
emptied  into  troughs  or  ditches.  Near  the  boundary 
between  Oregon  and  Idaho  the  Snake  plunges  into 
the  mountains  ;  plump,  full-breasted,  tan-colored 
heights  close  about  it  on  all  sides,  now  dotted 
with  sagebrush,  then  lightly  touched  by  the  most 
delicate  green,  the  first  tender  caress  of  May.  All 
the  lines  are  feminine  and  flowing,  only  here  and 
there  a  touch  of  ruggedness  as  the  brown  rock 
crops  out.  Cover  these  mountains  with  turf,  and 
they  are  almost  a  copy  of  the  sheep  fells  and  green 
ranges  of  northern  England.  They  are  marked  by 
the  same  fullness  and  softness  of  outline.  For  many 
miles  the  Snake  flows  north,  through  these  treeless, 
rounded,  flower-painted,  green-veiled  mountains, 
until  it  enters  the  terrible  canyon  between  the  Seven 

16 


IN  GREEN  ALASKA 

Devils  and  the  Wallowas.  Reappearing  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Clearwater,  it  bends  westerly  and  cuts 
another  long  canyon  across  the  high  plateau  of 
eastern  Oregon  and  Washington.  It  does  not  trav- 
erse any  flat  country  until  it  finally  emerges  on  the 
sand  plains  near  its  junction  with  the  Columbia. 

Our  train  made  a  long  detour  through  Oregon 
and  Washington,  and  put  us  down  at  Lewiston  in 
Idaho,  that  we  might  have  a  steamboat  ride  down 
Snake  River  to  its  mouth  in  the  Columbia.  I  had 
somehow  got  the  impression  that  we  should  see  great 
forests  in  Washington  and  Oregon,  but  we  missed 
them.  They  are  on  the  moist  Pacific  slope  west  of 
the  Cascade  Range.  We  sailed  150  miles  that  after- 
noon down  the  Snake,  amid  mountains  two  thou- 
sand or  more  feet  high,  as  smooth  and  as  treeless 
as  the  South  Downs  of  England;  very  novel,  very 
beautiful,  their  lower  slopes  pink  in  places  with  a 
delicate  flower  called  Clarkia,  in  others  blue-purple 
like  the  cheek  of  a  plum.  I  say  mountains,  but  they 
are  only  the  sides  of  the  huge  canyon  through  which 
the  Snake  flows.  How  the  afternoon  sun  brought 
out  their  folds  and  dimples  and  clinging,  delicate 
tints !  The  green  of  the  higher  slopes  was  often  like 
a  veil  of  thin  green  gauze,  dropped  upon  them.  The 
effects  were  all  new  to  me,  and  pleasing  beyond 
words,  —  wild,  aboriginal,  yet  with  such  beauty 
and  winsome  gentleness  and  delicacy.  The  river 
is  nearly  half  the  width  of  the  Hudson,  and  much 

17 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

more  winding.  The  geologists  speculated  upon  the 
formation  as  it  was  laid  bare  in  places ;  the  bota- 
nists upon  the  wild  flowers  that  painted  the  shore  ; 
the  ornithologists  upon  the  birds  seen  and  heard. 
Swarms  of  cliff  swallows  were  observed  about  the 
basaltic  rocks  near  the  water. 

There  were  not  many  signs  of  rural  life,  —  here 
and  there  low,  rude  farmhouses  on  the  deltas  of 
land  at  the  mouths  of  the  side  gorges,  and  at  least 
one  very  large  fruit  farm  on  a  low,  level  area  on  our 
right.  A  novel  sijjht  was  the  Ion":  wooden  and  wire 
wheat  chutes  for  running  the  wheat  down  from 
the  farms  back  on  the  high  mountain  tablelands  to 
the  river,  where  the  boats  could  pick  it  up.  They 
were  tokens  of  a  life  and  fertility  quite  unseen  and 
unsuspected. 

MULTNOMAH    FALLS 

The  ride  in  the  train  along  the  south  bank  of  the 
Columbia  toward  Portland,  past  The  Dalles,  past 
the  Cascades,  past  Oneonta  Gorge  and  the  Mult- 
nomah and  Latourelle  Falls,  is  a  feast  of  the  beau- 
tiful and  the  sublime,  —  the  most  delicate  tints  and 
colors  of  moss  and  wild  flowers  setting  off  the  most 
rugged  alpine  scenery.  In  places  the  railroad  em- 
bankment is  decked  w^ith  brilliant  patches  of  red 
and  purple  flowers,  as  if  garlanded  for  a  festival. 
Presently  the  moss-covered  rocks  are  white-aproned 
with  the  clear  mountain  brooks  that  cascade  down 

18 


IN  GREEN  ALASKA 

their  sides  from  the  dark,  mantling  pines  and  cedars 
above.  They  are  the  prelude  of  what  we  are  pre- 
sently to  see,  —  the  gem  of  all  this  region,  and  per- 
haps the  most  thrillingly  beautiful  bit  of  natural 
scenery  we  beheld  on  the  whole  trip,  —  the  Mult- 
nomah Falls. 

The  train  gave  us  only  five  minutes  to  look  at  it, 
but  those  five  minutes  were  of  the  most  exquisite 
delight.  There,  close  at  hand,  but  withdrawn  into 
a  deep  recess  in  the  face  of  the  mountain  wall,  like  a 
statue  in  an  alcove,  stood  this  vision  of  beauty  and 
sublimity.  How  the  siren  mocked  us,  and  made 
the  few  minutes  in  which  we  were  allowed  to  view 
her  so  tantalizingly  brief !  Not  water,  but  the  spirit 
of  water,  of  a  snow-born  mountain  torrent,  playing 
and  dallying  there  with  wind  and  gravity,  on  the 
face  of  a  vertical,  moss-covered,  rocky  wall  six  hun- 
dred feet  high.  So  ethereal,  yet  so  massive;  a  com- 
bination of  a  certain  coyness  and  unapproachable- 
ness  with  such  elemental  grandeur  and  power.  It 
left  nothing  to  be  desired  but  a  day  in  which  to  picnic 
upon  the  flower-covered  carpet  of  moss  at  its  feet. 
The  brief  view  warmed  me  up  like  a  great  sym- 
phony. It  was  indeed  to  the  eye  what  the  sweetest 
and  most  stirring  music  is  to  the  ear,  —  harmony, 
delicacy,  and  power.  Such  an  air  of  repose  and 
completeness  about  it  all  ;  yes,  and  of  the  private 
and  secluded.  The  nymph  was  withdrawn  into 
her  bower,  but  had  left  the  door  open.    This  ele- 

19 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

mcnt  of  mystery  and  shyness  was  afforded  by  the 
well-hidden  rocky  basin  into  which  the  water  fell, 
and  by  the  curtain  of  rock  which  shut  it  off  from 
our  view.  Out  of  this  basin  the  current  emerged 
near  at  hand  and  more  familiar  in  a  fall  of  fifty  feet 
or  more,  w^hence  it  took  its  way  to  the  river  in  a 
clear,  rapid  stream.  It  was  as  if  the  goddess  had  re- 
clothed  herself  in  this  hidden  rock-screened  pool 
and  come  forth  again  in  more  palpable  every-day 
guise.  I  hardly  expected  to  see  anything  in  Alaska 
or  anywhere  else  that  would  blur  or  lessen  the 
impression  made  by  those  falls,  and  I  did  not, 
and  probably  never  shall. 

We  had  hoped  that  at  Portland  and  Seattle  we 
should  get  glimpses  of  the  great  mountains  — 
Hood,  Baker,  Rainier  —  but  we  did  not  ;  fog  and 
cloud  prevented.  A  lady  living  upon  the  heights  at 
Seattle  told  me  that  when  a,  dweller  there  was  out 
of  humor,  her  neighbors  usually  excused  her  by 
saying,  "Well,  she  has  not  seen  the  Olympics  this 
morning."  I  fancy  they  are  rarely  on  exhibition 
to  strangers  or  visitors. 

THE   INLAND    PASSAGE 

The  chapters  of  our  sea  voyage  and  Alaskan  ex- 
periences properly  opened  on  the  afternoon  of  May 
31,  when  we  found  our  state-rooms  in  our  steamer, 
the  George  W.  Elder,  received  our  California  con- 
tingent, which  included  John  Muir,  and  made  our 

20 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

final  preparations  for  the  trip.  The  steamer  was 
a  large  iron  ship,  specially  fitted  up  for  our  party. 
Her  coal  bunkers  were  full,  and  she  was  provisioned 
for  a  two  months'  cruise.  We  had  hunting  parties 
among  us  that  expected  to  supply  us  with  venison 
and  bear  meat,  but  to  be  on  the  safe  side  we  took 
aboard  eleven  fat  steers,  a  flock  of  sheep,  chickens 
and  turkeys,  a  milch  cow,  and  a  span  of  horses.  The 
horses  were  to  be  used  to  transport  the  hunters  and 
their  traps  inland  and  to  pack  out  the  big  game. 
The  hold  of  our  ship  looked  hke  a  farmer's  barn- 
yard. We  heard  the  mellow  low  of  the  red  steer  even 
in  the  wilds  of  Bering  Sea,  but  the  morning  crow 
of  our  cockerels  was  hushed  long  before  that  time. 
And  I  may  here  anticipate  events  so  far  as  to  say 
that  the  horses  proved  a  superfluity,  their  only  asso- 
ciation with  game  being  the  two  foxskins  for  which 
Mr.  Harriman  traded  them  at  Kadiak.  But  this 
was  no  ignoble  ending,  as  they  were  choice  pelts  of 
the  rare  and  coveted  black  fox.  Besides  the  live 
stock  just  mentioned,  an  inventory  of  our  equipment 
would  include  one  steam  and  two  naphtha  launches, 
boats  and  folding  canvas  canoes,  tents,  sleeping- 
bags,  camp  outfits,  and  in  fact  everything  such  an 
expedition  could  possibly  need.  Our  completed 
party  now  numbered  over  forty  persons  besides 
the  crew  and  the  officers  of  the  ship  (126  persons  in 
all),  and  embraced  college  professors  from  both  the 
Atlantic  and  Pacific  coasts  —  botanists,  zoologists, 

21 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

geologists,  and  other  specialists,  besides  artists, 
photographers,  two  physicians,  one  trained  nurse, 
one  doctor  of  divinity,  and  at  least  one  dreamer. 

Dr.  Dall  was  our  Alaska  specialist,  having  pre- 
viously visited  the  territory  thirteen  times,  and  hav- 
ing spent  many  years  there.  In  John  INIuir  we  had 
an  authority  on  glaciers,  and  a  thorough  one;  he 
looked  upon  them  with  the  affection  and  the  air  of 
proprietorship  with  which  a  shepherd  looks  upon  his 
flock.  The  Indians  used  to  call  him  the  Great  Ice 
Chief.  Dr.  Fernow  was  our  professor  of  forestry  and 
might  be  called  the  Great  Tree  Chief.  Then  what 
Professors  Emerson,  Palache,  and  Gilbert  could  not 
tell  us  about  the  geology  of  the  country,  or  Brew-er 
and  Gannett  about  the  climate  and  physical  geo- 
graphy, or  Coville  and  Trelease  about  the  plants, 
or  Ritter  and  Saunders  about  the  life  in  the  sea,  or 
Merriam  about  the  mammals,  or  Ridgw^ay  and  Fisher 
about  the  birds,  or  Elliot  about  the  game-birds,  or 
Devereux  about  mines,  or  Grinnell  and  Dellenbauirh 
about  Indians,  it  could  hardly  be  worth  our  while 
to  try  to  find  out. 

We  were  in  British  waters  on  June  1st  and  set 
foot  on  British  soil  at  Victoria  on  the  Island  of  Van- 
couver. Even  the  climate  is  British  —  mist  and  a 
warm  slow  rain  —  with  dense  verdure  and  thick 
green  turf  dotted  with  the  English  daisy.  Indeed, 
nature  here  seems  quite  as  English  as  does  the  sober, 
solidly  built  town  with  its  fine  and  imposing  Parlia- 

22 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

ment  building  —  all  but  the  birds.  I  heard  the  west- 
ern highhole  calling  hke  ours  at  home;  and  the 
russet-backed  thrush,  the  yellow  warbler,  and  the 
white-crowned  sparrow  were  in  song  along  the  woods 
and  brushy  fields. 

On  June  1st,  after  touching  at  Victoria,  we  were 
fairly  launched  upon  our  voyage.  Before  us  was  a 
cruise  of  several  thousand  miles,  one  thousand  of 
which  was  through  probably  the  finest  scenery  of 
the  kind  in  the  world  that  can  be  viewed  from  the 
deck  of  a  sliip  —  the  scenery  of  fiords  and  mountain- 
locked  bays  and  arms  of  the  sea.  Day  after  day 
a  panorama  unrolls  before  us  with  features  that 
might  have  been  gathered  from  the  Highlands  of 
the  Hudson,  from  Lake  George,  from  the  Thou- 
sand Islands,  the  Saguenay,  and  the  Rangeley  Lakes 
in  Maine,  with  the  addition  of  towering  snow- 
capped peaks  thrown  in  for  a  background.  The 
edge  of  this  part  of  the  continent  for  a  thousand 
miles  has  been  broken  into  fragments,  small  and 
great,  as  by  the  stroke  of  some  earth-cracking 
hammer,  and  into  the  openings  and  channels  thus 
formed  the  sea  flows  freely,  often  at  a  depth  of  from 
one  to  two  thousand  feet.  It  is  along  these  inland 
ocean  highways,  through  tortuous  narrows,  up 
smooth,  placid  inlets,  across  broad  island-studded 
gulfs  and  bays,  with  now  and  then  the  mighty  throb 
of  the  Pacific  felt  for  an  hour  or  two  through  some 
open  door  in  the  wall  of  islands,  that  our  course  lay* 

93 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

For  two  days  Vancouver  Island  is  on  our  left 
with  hardly  a  break  in  its  dark  spruce  forests,  cov- 
ering mountain  and  vale.  On  our  right  is  British 
Columbia,  presenting  the  same  endless  spruce 
forests,  with  peaks  of  the  Coast  Range,  eight  or  ten 
thousand  feet  high,  in  the  background,  and  only 
an  occasional  sign  of  human  life  on  shore.  I  recall 
a  lone  farmhouse  in  a  stumpy  clearing  that  drew 
our  eyes.  IIow  remote  and  secluded  it  looked !  The 
dark  forests,  with  a  fringe  of  dead  trees  where  the 
pioneer's  fire  had  raged,  encompassed  it.  The  grass 
and  grain  looked  green  among  the  stumps,  and  near 
the  house,  which  was  a  well-built,  painted  struc- 
ture, we  could  see  fruit-trees  and  a  garden.  There 
was  not  much  wild  life  about  us;  now  and  then  a 
duck  or  two,  an  occasional  bald  eagle,  a  small 
flock  of  phalaropes,  which  the  sailors  call  "  sea 
geese,"  as  they  sit  on  the  water  like  miniature 
geese. 

Our  first  dangerous  passage  was  SejTiiour  Nar- 
rows, which  we  reached  at  the  right  stage  of  the  tide. 
Cautiously  the  ship  felt  her  way  through  the  con- 
torted  currents  that  surged  above  the  sunken  rocks. 
Fog  clouds  clung  to  the  white  peaks  that  rose  above 
the  dark  forests  about  us  and  partly  veiled  them. 
At  times  we  were  so  near  them  that  with  a  glass  one 
could  see  where  little  snow-balls  had  detached  them- 
selves and  made  straight  lines  down  the  smooth 
white  surface.     It  was  the  2d  of  June,  but  the  wind 

24 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

that  swept  down  the  channel  was  as  cold  as  that  of 
an  October  morning  at  home.  The  event  of  this 
day  was  the  sunset  at  half-past  eight  o'clock.  I  had 
often  seen  as  much  color  and  brilliancy  in  the  sky, 
but  never  before  such  depth  and  richness  of  blue 
and  purple  upon  the  mountains  and  upon  the  water. 
Where  the  sun  went  down  the  horizon  was  low,  and 
but  a  slender  black  line  of  forest  separated  the  sky 
from  the  water.  All  above  was  crimson  and  orange 
and  gold,  and  all  below,  to  the  right  and  left,  purple 
laid  upon  purple  until  the  whole  body  of  the  air  be- 
tween us  and  the  mountains  in  the  distance  seemed 
turned  to  color. 

As  we  go  north  the  scenery  becomes  more  and 
more  like  that  of  the  fiords  on  the  coast  of  Nor- 
way, except  that  the  mountains  there  are  mostly 
deforested.  Deep  sea-blue  water  about  us,  dark 
spruce  and  cedar  clad  and  torrent-furrowed  moun- 
tains rising  above  us,  touched  with  snow  on  their 
summits.  Now  and  then  a  bald  eagle  flaps  heavily 
along  the  mountain-side,  or  a  line  of  black  oyster- 
catchers  skim  swiftly  over  the  surface.  We  see 
Mount  Palmerston  on  our  left,  five  thousand  feet 
high,  covered  with  a  heavy  snow  mantle  in  which 
his  rocky  bones  have  worn  many  holes.  The  bril- 
liant sun  brings  out  every  line  and  angle.      J^ 

At  noon  we  stop  in  a  deep  cove  with  a  rapid 
stream  coming  into  the  head  of  it,  to  give  some  of 
our  party  an  hour  on  shore.    While  we  are  waiting 

25 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

for  them,  two  deer  appear  upon  the  beach,  about  a 
mile  distant.  Tliey  l:>rowse  around  awhile,  then 
disappear  in  the  woods.  To  the  west  of  us  is  a 
striking  picture.  In  the  foreground  is  the  sea  with 
a  line  of  low,  rounded,  dark  rocky  islands;  behind 
them,  far  off,  a  range  of  blue  mountains  with  a 
broad  band  of  dun-colored  clouds  resting  upon 
them;  rising  above  the  band  of  clouds  a  series  of 
snow-covered  peaks,  with  the  sun  shining  full 
upon  them,  probably  the  highest  peaks  we  have  yet 
seen.  The  cloud  belt  cuts  off  and  isolates  the  peaks 
and  gives  them  a  buoyant  airy  character.  From 
the  dark  near-by  tree-tufted  chain  of  islands  to 
the  white-illuminated  peaks,  what  a  wealth  of  blue 
and  gray  tints  and  tones! 

Near  nightfall  on  this  second  day  we  begin  to 
feel  the  great  pulse  of  the  Pacific  around  the  head 
of  Vancouver  Island,  through  the  broad  open  door 
called  Queen  Charlotte  Sound.  For  three  hours 
the  ship  rolls  as  upon  the  open  sea,  and  to  several 
of  us  the  "  subsequent  proceedings  "  that  night  were 
void  of  interest. 

In  the  early  morning  we  pass  another  open  door, 
Milbank  Sound,  but  are  soon  in  Graham  Reach, 
which  is  like  a  larger,  wilder  Hudson.  When  we 
look  out  of  our  windows  the  sun  is  upon  the  moun- 
tain tops,  and  the  snow  much  farther  down  their 
sides  than  \\e  have  yet  seen  it. 

As  we  progress,  many  deep  ravines  are  noted  in 

26 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

vast  recesses  in  the  mountains,  scooped  out  by  the 
old  glaciers.  They  are  enormous  rocky  bowls 
which  we  imagine  hold  crystal  lakes;  foaming 
streams  pour  out  of  them  into  the  channel.  Far  up, 
silver  threads  of  water,  born  of  the  melting  snows, 
are  seen  upon  the  vast  faces  of  the  rocks.  Some 
of  them  course  down  the  tracks  of  old  landslides  ; 
others  are  seen  only  as  they  emerge  from  dark 
spruces. 

The  snow  upon  the  mountain  tops  looks  new 
fallen;  our  glasses  bring  out  the  sharp  curling  edges 
of  the  drifts.  Here  and  there  along  the  shore  below 
are  seen  the  rude  huts  of  trappers  and  hunters. 
The  eternal  spruce  and  hemlock  forests  grow 
monotonous.  The  many  dry,  white  trunks  of  dead 
trees,  scattered  evenly  through  the  forest,  make 
the  mountains  look  as  if  a  shower  of  gigantic  arrow^s 
had  fallen  upon  them  from  the  sky.  Gulls,  loons, 
and  scoters  are  seen  at  long  intervals. 

Snow  avalanches  have  swept  innumerable  paths, 
broad  and  narrow,  down  through  the  spruce  forest 
Those  great  glacier  basins  on  our  left  invite  inspec- 
tion, so  we  send  a  party  ashore  to  examine  one  of 
them.  They  do  not  find  the  expected  lake,  but  in 
its  stead  a  sphagnum  bog,  through  which  the  creek 
winds  its  way.  Fresh  tracks  and  other  signs  of  deer 
are  seen. 

In  mid-afternoon  we  turn  into  Lowe  Inlet,  a 
deep,  narrow,  mountain-locked  arm  of  the  sea  on 

27 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

our  right,  with  a  salmon  cannery  at  the  head  of  it, 
and  a  large,  rapid  trout  stream  making  a  fine  water- 
fall. Here,  among  the  employees  of  the  cannery,  we 
see  our  first  Alaskan  Indians  and  note  their  large, 
round,  stolid,  innocent  faces.  Here  also  some  of  us 
get  our  first  taste  of  Alaska  woods.  In  trying  to 
make  our  way  to  the  falls  we  are  soon  up  to  our 
necks  amid  moss,  fallen  timber,  and  devil's  club. 
Progress  is  all  but  impossil^le,  and  those  who  finally 
reach  the  falls  do  so  by  withdrawing  from  the  woods 
and  taking  to  boats.  Traversing  Alaskan  forests 
must  be  a  trying  task  even  to  deer  and  bears.  They 
have  apparently  never  been  purged  or  thinned  by 
fire  —  too  damp  for  that  —  and  they  are  choked 
with  the  accumulation  of  ages.  Two  or  three  gen- 
erations of  fallen  trees  cross  one  another  in  all 
directions  amid  the  rocks,  with  moss  over  all  like  a 
deep  fall  of  snow,  and  worse  still,  thickly  planted 
with  devil's  club.  This  is  a  shrub  as  high  as  your 
head,  covered  with  long  sharp  spines  and  with 
large  thorny  leaves.  It  is  like  a  blackberry  bush 
with  thorns  ten  times  multiplied.  It  hedges  about 
these  mossy  cushions  as  with  the  fangs  of  serpents. 
One  can  hardly  touch  it  without  being  stung.  The 
falls  are  the  outlet  of  a  deep,  hidden,  enticing  valley, 
with  a  chain  of  beautiful  lakes,  we  were  told,  but 
our  time  was  too  brief  to  explore  it.  The  winter 
wren  was  found  here,  and  the  raven,  and  a  species 
of  woodpecker. 

28 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 


METLAKAHTLA 


We  were  not  really  in  iVlaskan  waters  until  the  next 
day,  June 4th.  This  was  Sunday,  and  we  spent  most 
of  the  day  visiting  Metlakahtla,  the  Indian  Mission 
settlement  on  Annette  Island,  where  we  saw  one  of 
the  best  object  lessons  to  be  found  on  the  coast, 
showing  what  can  be  done  with  the  Alaska  Indians. 
Here  were  a  hundred  or  more  comfortable  frame 
houses,  some  of  them  of  two  stories,  many  of  them 
painted,  all  of  them  substantial  and  in  good  taste, 
a  large  and  imposing  wooden  church,  a  large  school- 
house,  a  town  hall,  and  extensive  canning  estab- 
lishments, all  owned  and  occupied  by  seven  or 
eight  hundred  Tlinkit  Indians,  who,  under  the  won- 
derful tutelage  of  William  Duncan,  a  Scotch  mis- 
sionary, had  been  brought  from  a  low  state  of 
savagery  to  a  really  fair  state  of  industrial  civiliza- 
tion. The  town  is  only  twelve  years  old,  and  is 
situated  on  a  broad  expanse  of  nearly  level  land 
at  the  foot  of  the  mountains.  The  large  stumps 
and  logs  on  the  surface  between  the  houses  show 
how  recently  the  land  has  been  cleared.  The  earth 
was  covered  with  a  coat  of  peat,  the  accumulation 
of  ages  of  a  thick  growth  of  moss.  Beneath  this 
the  soil  was  red  and  friable.  We  strolled  about 
the  numerous  streets  on  broad  plank  walks  that 
reached  from  side  to  side  above  the  rocks  and 
stumps.  Many  of  the  houses  had  gardens  where  were 

29 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

grown  potatoes,  turnips,  onions,  strawberries,  rasp- 
berries, and  currants.  The  people  were  clad  as  well 
and  in  much  the  same  way  as  those  of  rural  villages 
in  New  York  and  New  England.  A  large  number 
of  them  were  gathered  upon  the  wharf  when  we 
landed,  their  big  round  faces  and  black  eyes  showing 
only  a  quiet,  respectful  curiosity.  We  called  upon 
Mr.  Duncan  at  his  house  and  listened  to  his  racy 
and  entertaining  conversation.  His  story  was  full  of 
interest.  At  eleven  o'clock  the  church  bell  was  ring- 
ing, and  the  people  —  men,  women,  and  children,  all 
neatly  and  tastefully  clad  —  began  to  assemble  foi 
their  Sunday  devotions.  Some  of  the  hats  of  the 
younger  women  looked  as  if  fresh  from  the  hands  of 
a  fashionable  city  milliner.  Many  of  the  older  ma- 
trons wore  silk  handkerchiefs  of  various  colors  on 
their  heads.  Mr.  Duncan  preached  to  his  people  in 
their  native  tongue,  a  vague,  guttural,  featureless 
sort  of  language,  it  seemed.  The  organ  music  and 
the  singing  were  quite  equal  to  what  one  would  hear 
in  any  rural  church  at  home.  The  church  was  built 
by  native  carpenters  out  of  native  woods,  and  its 
large  audience  room,  capable  of  seating  eight  or 
nine  hundred  people,  was  truly  rich  and  beautiful. 
Mr.  Duncan  is  really  the  father  of  his  people.  He 
stands  to  them  not  only  for  the  gospel,  but  for  the 
civil  law  as  well.  He  supervises  their  business  enter- 
prises and  composes  their  family  quarrels. 

The  Alaskan  Indian  is  of  quite  a  different  race 

30 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

from  the  red  man  as  we  know  him.  lie  is  smaller 
in  stature  and  lighter  in  color,  and  has  none  of  that 
look  as  of  rocks  and  mountains,  austere  and  relent- 
less, that  our  Indians  have.  He  also  takes  more 
kindly  to  our  ways  and  customs  and  to  our  various 
manual  industries. 

In  reaching  the  land  of  the  Indian  we  had  reached 
the  land  of  the  raven  also  —  few  crows,  but  many 
ravens.  We  saw  them  upon  the  beach  and  around 
the  wharf  long  before  we  landed.  In  the  village  they 
were  everywhere  —  on  the  roofs  of  the  houses, 
and  on  the  stumps  and  dooryard  fences.  Six  were 
perched  upon  one  of  the  towers  of  the  church  as  I 
approached.  Their  calls  and  croakings  and  jabber- 
ings  were  in  the  ear  at  all  times.  The  raven  is  a 
much  more  loquacious  bird  than  the  crow.  His 
tongue  is  seldom  still.  When  he  has  no  fellow  to  talk 
to  he  talks  to  himself,  and  his  soliloquy  is  often  full 
of  really  musical  notes.  In  these  Alaskan  settlements 
they  appear  to  act  as  scavengers,  like  the  buzzards 
in  the  South.  Other  birds  that  attracted  my  atten- 
tion were  the  song  sparrow,  a  nest  of  which  with 
young  I  found  amid  some  bushes  near  one  of  the 
houses,  and  the  russet-backed  thrush,  which  was 
flitting  about  the  streets  and  gardens. 

In  the  afternoon  we  were  steaming  over  a  vast 
irregular-shaped  body  of  water  —  Clarence  Straits. 
On  one  side  the  sky  and  water  met  in  a  long  hori- 

31 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

zontal  line.  The  sun  was  shiningbrightly,andthe  far- 
off  snow-capped  mountains  rolled  up  against  the  sky 
like  thunder-heads.  Nearer  by  were  small  spruce- 
tufted  islands,  and  low  dark  shores.  Etolin  Island 
was  ahead  of  us,  and  Prince  of  Wales  Island  on  the 
west.  In  the  evening  we  saw  the  most  striking  sun- 
set of  the  voyage.  We  were  in  just  the  right  place  at 
just  the  right  time.  All  the  conditions  and  relations 
of  sun,  air,  water,  and  jnountain  were  as  we  would 
have  had  them  —  a  scene  such  as  artists  try  in  vain 
to  paint  and  travelers  to  describe:  towering  snow- 
clad  peaks  far  ahead  of  us,  rising  behind  dark  blue 
and  purple  ranges,  fold  on  fold,  and  all  aflame  with 
the  setting  sun.  We  looked  upon  the  spectacle  through 
a  huge  gateway  in  our  front  which  formed  a  dark 
rugged  frame  to  the  picture.  The  solid  earth  be- 
came spiritual  and  transcendent.  Presently  another 
dark  gateway  opened  in  the  mountains  on  our  right 
and  other  transfigured  summits  —  Black  Crag,  Mt. 
W^hipple,  the  Pinnacles  —  came  into  view,  riding 
slowly  along  above  and  behind  other  blue  purple 
ranges  —  such  depth  and  softness  of  tint  and  shadow 
below,  such  glory  of  flame  and  gold  above  !  The 
ship  crept  along  in  the  deepening  twilight  and  slowly 
the  flaming  peaks  turned  to  neutral  gray. 

WRANGELL   AND    JUNEAU 

The  morning  of  the  5th  dawned  clear  and  cold, 
like  a  winter  morning  in  Florida.   It  found  us  at  Fort 

32 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

Wrangell,  where  we  spent  a  few  hours  on  shore 
looking  at  totem  poles  and  viewing  the  shabby  old 
town,  while  we  kept  an  eye  open  to  the  botany  and 
natural  history  of  the  place.  Our  collectors  brought 
in  a  Steller's  jay,  a  russet-back'od  thrush,  an  Ore- 
gon junco,  a  gray  fox  sparrow,  a  lutescent  warbler, 
a  rufous-backed  chickadee  with  nest  and  eggs,  and 
a  Harris's  woodpecker. 

At  eight  o'clock  we  were  off  again  toward  Wrangell 
Narrows,  across  the  superb  Wrangell  Bay.  At  noon 
we  saw  Devil's  Thumb  on  our  right,  a  naked  shaft 
over  sixteen  hundred  feet  high,  rising  from  a  moun- 
tain which  is  over  seven  thousand  feet.  It  is  a  thumb 
of  goodly  dimensions. 

The  next  day  we  saw  our  first  glacier,  the  Patter- 
son, a  small  affair  compared  with  those  we  were  soon 
to  behold ;  indeed  about  the  smallest  lamb  of  the  flock 
of  Muir's  mountain  sheep,  but  interesting  to  novice 
eyes.  It  lies  there  low  in  the  lap  or  apron  of  the 
mountain,  and  suggests  the  fragment  of  an  arrested 
or  congealed  river.  All  the  afternoon  we  sailed 
under  cloudless  skies  along  Frederick  Sound,  feasting 
our  eyes  upon  the  vast  panorama  of  the  encircling 
mountains.  When  we  tired  of  this  there  were  the  low 
curving  shores  and  nearer-by  heights  and  the  numer- 
ous tree-capped  islands  that  seemed  floating  upon  the 
blue  expanse  of  water.  Many  whales  were  seen  blow- 
ing, their  glistening  backs  emerging  from  the  water, 
turning  slowly  like  the  periphery  of  a  huge  wheel. 

33 


FAR   AND   NEAR 

We  had  reached  the  land  of  eagles  as  well  as  of 
ravens.  On  a  low  rocky  point  seven  eagles  sat  in 
a  row  on  the  rocks  near  the  water's  edge  and  re- 
garded us  with  the  indifference  of  Indian  chiefs. 

We  stopped  a  day  at  Juneau,  from  which  point 
we  visited  the  famous  Treadwell  mines  on  Douglas 
Island.  Nearly  two  thousand  tons  of  quartz  rock 
are  crushed  daily  at  these  mills,  and  the  roar  made 
by  the  eight  hundred  or  more  stamps,  all  under  one 
roof,  in  pulverizing  this  rock,  dwarfs  all  other  rackets 
I  ever  heard.  Niagara  is  a  soft  hum  beside  it.  Never 
before  have  I  been  where  the  air  was  torn  to  tatters 
and  the  ear  so  stunned  and  overwhelmed  as  in  this 
jaill.  If  the  heavens  ever  should  fall  and  one  were 
under  a  roof  strong  enough  to  stand  the  shock,  I 
think  the  uproar  might  be  something  like  what  we 
experienced  that  day.  It  was  not  a  grand  reverber- 
ating sound  like  the  sounds  of  nature,  it  was  simply 
the  most  ear-paralyzing  noise  ever  heard  within  four 
walls.  Heard,  I  say,  though  in  truth  we  did  not  hear 
it.  To  hear  a  thing,  there  must  be  some  silence ;  this 
hubbub  was  so  great  and  all-pervasive  that  the  audi- 
tory nerve  was  simply  bruised  into  insensibility.  The 
remarkable  thing  about  this  mine  is  the  enormous 
extent  of  the  gold-bearing  quartz  and  its  low  grade 
—  three  or  four  dollars  a  ton  of  rock.  And  yet  the 
process  of  extracting  the  gold  has  been  so  cheap- 
ened by  improved  methods  and  machinery  that  the 
investment  yields  a  good  profit. 

34 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

LYNN   CANAL   AND    SKAGWAY 

All  the  afternoon  we  steamed  up  Lynn  Canal  over 
broad,  placid  waters,  shut  in  by  dark  smooth-based 
mountains  that  end  in  bare  serrated  peaks.  Glaciers 
became  more  and  more  numerous ;  one  on  our  right 
hung  high  on  the  brink  of  a  sheer,  naked  precipice, 
as  if  drawing  back  from  the  fearful  plunge.  But 
plunge  it  did  not  and  probably  never  will. 

We  were  soon  in  sight  of  a  much  larger  glacier,  the 
Davidson,  on  our  left.  It  flows  out  of  a  deep  gorge 
and  almost  reaches  the  inlet.  Seen  from  afar  it  sug- 
gests the  side  view  of  a  huge  white  foot  with  its  toe 
pressing  a  dark  line  of  forest  into  the  sea. 

Before  sunset  we  :  cached  Skagway  and  landed  at 
the  long,  liigh  pier  (the  tides  here  are  sixteen  or  eigh- 
teen feet).  The  pier  was  swarming  with  people.  Such 
a  gathering  and  such  curiosity  and  alertness  we  had 
not  before  seen.  Hotel  runners  flourished  their  cards 
and  called  out  the  names  of  their  various  hostelries 
before  we  had  touched  the  dock.  Boys  greeted  us 
with  shouts  and  comments;  women  and  girls,  some 
of  them  in  bicycle  suits,  pushed  to  the  front  and 
gazed  intently  at  the  strangers.  All  seemed  to  be  ex- 
pecting something,  friends  or  news,  or  some  sensa- 
tional occurrence.  No  sooner  had  we  touched  than 
the  boys  swarmed  in  upon  us  like  ants  and  began  to 
explore  the  ship,  and  were  as  promptly  swept  ashore 
again.  Skagway  is  barely  two  years  old.  Born  of  the 


<^ri 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

gold  fever,  it  is  still  feverish  and  excitable.  It  is  on 
a  broad  delta  of  land  made  by  the  Skagway  River 
between  the  mountains,  and,  it  seems  to  me,  is  likely 
at  any  time  by  a  great  flood  in  the  river  to  be  swept 
into  the  sea.  It  began  at  the  stump  and  probably  is 
still  the  stumpiest  town  in  the  country.  Many  of  the 
houses  stand  upon  stumps;  there  are  stumps  in 
nearly  every  dooryard,  but  the  people  already  speak 
of  the  "  early  times,"  three  years  ago. 

On  the  steep,  bushy  mountain-side  near  the  wharf 
I  heard  the  melodious  note  of  my  first  Alaska  her- 
mit thrush.  It  was  sweet  and  pleasing,  but  not  so 
prolonged  and  powerful  as  the  song  of  our  hermit. 

WHITE   PASS 

The  next  day  the  officials  of  the  Yukon  and  White 
Pass  Railroad  took  our  party  on  an  excursion  to  the 
top  of  the  famous  White  Pass,  twenty-one  miles  dis- 
tant. The  grade  up  the  mountain  is  in  places  over 
two  hundred  feet  to  the  mile,  and  in  making  the 
ascent  the  train  climbs  about  twentv-nine  hundred 
feet.  After  the  road  leaves  Skagway  River  its  course 
is  along  the  face  of  precipitous  granite  peaks  and 
domes,  with  long  loops  around  the  heads  of  gorges 
and  chasms;  occasionally  on  trestles  over  yawning 
gulfs,  but  for  the  most  part  on  a  shelf  of  rock  blasted 
out  of  the  side  of  the  mountain.  The  train  stopped 
from  time  to  time  and  allowed  us  to  walk  ahead  and 
coma  face  to  face  with  the  scene.   The  terrible  and 

36 


IN   GREEN   ALASKA 

the  sublime  were  on  every  hand.  It  was  as  appalling 
to  look  up  as  to  look  down ;  chaos  and  death  below 
us,  impending  avalanches  of  hanging  rocks  above 
us.  How  elemental  and  cataclysmal  it  all  looked !  I 
felt  as  if  I  were  seeing  for  the  first  time  the  real 
granite  ribs  of  the  earth;  they  had  been  cut  into  and 
slivered,  and  there  was  no  mistake  about  them.  All 
I  had  seen  before  were  but  scales  and  warts  on  the 
surface  by  comparison ;  here  were  the  primal  rocks 
that  held  the  planet  together,  sweeping  up  into  the 
clouds  and  plunging  down  into  the  abyss.  Over 
against  us  on  the  other  side  of  the  chasm  we  caught 
glimpses  here  and  there  of  the  "  Dead  Horse  Trail." 
Among  the  spruces  and  along  the  rocky  terraces  are 
said  to  have  perished  several  thousand  horses  on  this 
terrible  trail.  The  poor  beasts  became  so  weak  from 
lack  of  food  that  they  slipped  on  the  steep  places 
and  plunged  over  the  precipices  in  sheer  despera- 
tion, and  thus  ended  their  misery. 

On  the  summit  we  found  typical  March  weather: 
snow,  ice,  water,  mud,  slush,  fog,  and  chill.  The  fog 
prevented  us  from  getting  a  view  down  toward  the 
Klondike  country,  six  hundred  miles  away.  The 
British  flag  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes  were  floating 
side  by  side  on  the  provisional  boundary  line  be- 
tween Alaska  and  British  Columbia,  and  several 
Canadian  police  were  on  duty  there.  Even  in  this 
bleak  spot  we  found  birds  nesting  or  preparing  tc 
nest :  the  pipit,  the  golden-crowned  sparrow,  and  the 

37 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

rosy  finch.  The  vegetation  was  mostly  moss  and 
hc'licns  and  low  stunted  spruce,  the  latter  so  tlat- 
tened  by  the  snow  that  one  could  walk  over  them- 

In  keeping  with  the  snow  and  desolation  and 
general  dissolution  was  the  group  of  hasty,  ragged 
canvas  buildings  and  tents  at  the  railroad  ter- 
minus, the  larger  ones  belonging  to  the  company, 
the  others  for  the  accommodation  of  traveling  gold- 
seekers.  In  one  of  the  larger  tents  a  really  good 
dinner  was  served  our  party,  through  the  courtesy 
of  the  railroad  officials.  We  saw  on  the  trail  a  few 
gold-seekers  with  their  heavy  packs:  they  paused 
and  looked  up  wistfully  at  our  train. 

In  ascending  the  Pass  v/e  met  a  small  party  of 
naturalists  from  the  U.  S.  Biological  Survey  on  their 
way  to  the  Yukon,  the  entire  length  of  which  they 
intended  traversing  in  a  small  boat.  We  stopped 
long  enough  to  visit  their  tent  and  take  a  hasty  look 
at  the  interesting  collection  of  birds  and  mammals 
they  had  already  secured  here.  They  have  since 
returned  and  published  a  report  on  the  results  of 
their  labors. 

At  the  time  of  our  visit  the  railroad  terminus  was 
at  the  summit  of  the  pass,  from  which  point  pas- 
sengers bound  for  the  Klondike  were  transported  to 
Lake  Bennett  by  sleighs.  The  deep  snow  w^as 
melling  so  rapidly  and  slumping  so  badly  that  the 
sled-loads  of  people  and  grain  we  saw  depart  for  the 
Upper  Yukon  were,  we  were  told,  the  last  to  go 

38 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

through  before  the  completion   of  the   railroad   to 
Bennett. 

The  next  day  found  us  in  Glacier  Bay  on  our  way 
to  the  Muir  Glacier.  Our  course  was  up  an  arm  of  the 
sea,  dotted  with  masses  of  floating  ice,  till  in  the  dis- 
tance we  saw  the  great  glacier  itself.  Its  front  looked 
gray  and  dim  there  twenty  miles  away,  but  in  the 
background  the  mountains  that  feed  it  lifted  up  vast 
masses  of  snow  in  the  afternoon  sun.  At  five  o'clock 
we  dropped  anchor  about  two  miles  from  its  front,  in 
eighty  fathoms  of  water,  abreast  of  the  little  cabin  on 
the  east  shore  built  by  John  Muir  some  years  ago. 
Not  till  after  repeated  soundings  did  we  find  bottom 
within  reach  of  our  anchor  cables.  Could  the  inlet 
have  been  emptied  of  its  water  for  a  moment,  we 
should  have  seen  before  us  a  palisade  of  ice  nearly 
one  thousand  feet  higher  and  over  two  miles  long, 
with  a  turbid  river,  possibly  half  a  mile  wide,  boiling 
up  from  beneath  it.  Could  we  have  been  here  many 
centuries  ago,  we  should  have  seen,  much  farther 
down  the  valley,  a  palisade  of  ice  two  or  three  thou- 
sand feet  high.  Many  of  these  Alaskan  glaciers  are 
rapidly  melting  and  are  now  but  the  fragments  of 
their  former  selves.  From  observations  made  here 
twenty  years  ago  by  John  Muir,  it  is  known  that  the 
position  of  the  front  of  the  Muir  Glacier  at  that  time 
was  about  tv/o  miles  below  its  present  position,  which 
would  indicate  a  rate  3f  recession  of  about  one  mile 
in  ten  years. 

39 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

What  we  saw  on  that  June  afternoon  was  a  broken 
and  crumbling  wall  of  ice  two  hundred  and  fifty 
feet  high  in  our  front,  stretching  across  the  inlet 
and  running  down  to  a  low,  dirty,  crumbling  line 
where  it  ended  on  the  shore  on  our  left,  and  where 
it  disappeared  behind  high  gray  gravelly  banks  on 
our  right.  The  inlet  near  the  glacier  was  choked 
with  icebergs. 

What  is  that  roar  or  explosion  that  salutes  our  ears 
before  our  anchor  has  found  bottom  ?  It  is  the  down- 
pour of  an  enormous  mass  of  ice  from  the  gla- 
cier's front,  making  it  for  the  moment  as  active  as 
Niagara.  Other  and  still  other  downpours  follow 
at  intervals  of  a  few  minutes,  with  deep  explosive 
sounds  and  the  rising  up  of  great  clouds  of  spray, 
and  we  quickly  reahze  that  here  is  indeed  a  new 
kind  of  Niagara,  a  cataract  the  like  of  which  we 
have  not  before  seen,  a  mighty  congealed  river  that 
discharges  into  the  bay  intermittently  in  ice  ava- 
lanches that  shoot  down  its  own  precipitous  front 
The  mass  of  ice  below  the  water  line  is  vastly 
greater  than  that  above,  and  when  the  upper  por- 
tions fall  away,  enormous  bergs  are  liberated  and 
rise  up  from  the  bottom.  They  rise  slowly  and 
majestically,  like  huge  monsters  of  the  deep,  lifting 
themselves  up  to  a  height  of  fifty  or  a  hundred  feet, 
the  water  pouring  off  them  in  white  sheets.  Then 
they  subside  again  and  float  away  with  a  huge  wave 
in  front.    Nothing  we  had  read  or  heard  had  pre- 

4>0 


IN   GREEN   ALASKA 

pared  us  for  the  color  of  the  ice,  especially  of  the 
newly  exposed  parts  and  of  the  bergs  that  rose  from 
beneath  the  water  —  its  deep,  almost  indigo  blue. 
Huge  bergs  were  floating  about  that  suggested 
masses  of  blue  vitriol. 

As  soon  as  practicable,  many  of  us  went  ashore  in 
the  naphtha  launches,  and  were  soon  hurrying  over 
the  great  plateau  of  sand,  gravel,  and  boulders 
which  the  retreating  glacier  had  left,  and  which 
forms  its  vast  terminal  moraine. 

Many  of  the  rocks  and  stones  on  the  surface  were 
sharp  and  angular,  others  were  smooth  and  rounded. 
These  latter  had  evidently  passed  as  it  were  through 
the  gizzard  of  the  huge  monster,  while  the  others 
had  been  carried  on  its  back.  A  walk  of  a  mile  or 
more  brought  us  much  nearer  the  glacier's  front, 
and  standing  high  on  the  bank  of  the  moraine  we 
could  observe  it  at  our  leisure.  The  roar  that  fol- 
lowed the  discharge  of  ice  from  its  front  constantly 
suggested  the  blasting  in  mines  or  in  railroad  cuts. 
The  spray  often  rose  nearly  to  the  top  of  the  glacier. 
Night  and  day,  summer  and  winter,  this  intermit- 
tent and  explosive  discharge  of  the  ice  into  the  inlet 
goes  on  and  has  gone  on  for  centuries.  When  w^e 
awoke  in  the  night  we  heard  its  muffled  thunder, 
sometimes  so  loud  as  to  jar  the  windows  in  our  state- 
rooms, while  the  swells  caused  by  the  falling  and 
rising  masses  rocked  the  ship.  Probably  few  more 
strange  and  impressive  spectacles  than  this  glacier 

41 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

affords  can  be  found  on  the  continent.  It  has  a  cu- 
rious fascination.  Impending  .ataclysms  are  in  its 
look.  In  a  moment  or  two  one  knows  some  part  of 
it  will  topple  or  slide  into  the  sea.  One  afternoon 
during  our  stay  about  half  a  mile  of  the  front  fell  at 
once.  The  swell  which  it  caused  brouo;ht  jrrief  to  our 
photographers  who  had  ventured  too  near  it.  Their 
boat  was  filled  and  their  plates  were  destroyed.  The 
downfall  from  the  front  is  usually  a  torrent  of  shat- 
tered ice  which  pours  down,  simulating  water,  but 
at  longer  intervals  enormous  solid  masses  like  rocks, 
topple  and  plunge.  It  is  then  that  the  great  blue 
bergs  rise  up  from  below  —  born  of  the  depths. 
The  enormous  pressure  to  which  their  particles 
have  been  subjected  for  many  centuries  seems  to 
have  intensified  their  color.  They  have  a  pristine, 
elemental  look.  Their  crystals  have  not  seen  the 
light  since  they  fell  in  snowflakes  back  amid  the 
mountains  generations  ago.  All  this  time  impris- 
oned, traveling  in  darkness,  carving  the  valleys, 
polishing  the  rocks,  under  a  weight  as  of  mountains, 
till  at  last  their  deliverance  comes  with  crash  and 
roar,  and  they  are  once  more  free  to  career  in  the  air 
and  light  as  dew  or  rain  or  cloud,  and  then  again 
to  be  drawn  into  that  cycle  of  transformation  and 
caught  and  bound  once  more  in  glacier  chains  for 
another  century. 

We  lingered  by  the  Muir  and  in  adjacent  waters 
five  or  six  days,  sending  out  botanical,  zoological, 

42 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

and  glacial  expeditions  in  various  directions;  yes 
and  one  hunting  party  to  stir  up  the  bears  in  Howl- 
ing Valley.  Howling  Valley,  so  named  by  Muir,  is  a 
sort  of  coat-tail  pocket  of  the  great  glacier.  It  lies 
twenty  or  more  miles  from  the  front,  behind  the 
mountains.  The  hunters  started  off  eagerly  on  the 
first  afternoon  of  our  arrival,  with  packers  and  glis- 
tening Winchesters  and  boxes  of  ammunition,  and 
we  had  little  doubt  that  the  genius  loci  of  How  ling 
Valley  would  soon  change  its  tune. 

While  some  of  us  the  next  afternoon  were  explor- 
ing the  eastern  half  of  the  glacier,  w^hich  is  a  vast 
prairie-like  plain  of  ice,  we  saw  far  off  across  the 
dim  surface  to  the  north  tw^o  black  specks,  then  two 
other  black  specks,  and  in  due  time  still  other  black 
specks,  and  the  conjecture  passed  that  the  hunters 
were  returning,  and  that  the  heart  of  the  mystery 
of  Howling  Valley  had  not  been  plucked  out.  Our 
reluctant  conjectures  proved  too  true.  Just  at  night- 
fall the  hunters  came  straggling  in,  footsore  and 
w^eary  and  innocent  of  blood  —  soberer  if  not  sad- 
der, hardier  if  not  wiser  men.  The  undertaking 
involved  more  than  they  liad  bargained  for.  Their 
outward  course  that  afternoon  lay  for  a  dozen  miles 
or  more  across  the  glacier.  They  had  traveled  till 
near  midnight  and  then  rested  a  few  hours  in  their 
sleeping-bags  upon  the  ice.  One  may  sleep  upon  the 
snow  in  a  sleeping-bag,  but  ice  soon  makes  itself  felt 
in  more  ways  than  one.    W^hen  the  cold  began  to 

43 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

strike  up  through,  the  party  resumed  its  march. 
Very  soon  tliey  got  into  snow,  which  l)ecame  deeper 
and  deeper  as  they  proceeded.  Hidden  crevasses 
made  it  necessary  to  rope  themselves  together,  the 
new  hunting-shoes  pinched  aiid  rubbed,  the  packs 
grew  heavy,  the  snow  grew  deeper,  the  miles  grew 
longer,  and  there  might  not  be  any  bears  in  Howling 
Valley  after  all,  —  ]\Iuir's  imagination  may  have 
done  all  the  howling,  —  so,  after  due  deliberation  by 
all  hands,  it  was  voted  to  turn  back. 

It  is  much  easier  in  Alaska  to  bag  a  glacier  than 
a  bear;  hence  our  glacial  party,  made  up  of  John 
Muir,  Gilbert,  and  Palache,  who  set  out  to  explore 
the  head  of  Glacier  Bay,  was  more  successful  than 
the  hunters.  They  found  more  glaciers  than  they 
were  looking  for.  One  large  glacier  of  twenty  years 
ago  had  now  become  two,  not  by  increasing  but 
by  diminishing;  the  main  trunk  had  disappeared, 
leaving  the  two  branches  in  separate  valleys.  All  the 
glaciers  of  this  bay,  four  or  five  in  number,  were 
found  to  have  retreated  many  hundred  feet  since 
Muir's  first  visit,  two  decades  earlier.  The  explorers 
were  absent  from  the  ship  three  days  on  a  cruise 
attended  with  no  little  peril. 

During  the  same  time  an  ornithological  and  bo- 
tanical party  of  six  or  eight  men  was  in  camp  on 
Gustavus  Peninsula,  a  long,  low,  w^ooded  stretch  of 
land  twenty  miles  below  Muir  Glacier.  Here  over 
forty  species   of  birds,   including  sea  birds,  were 

44 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

observed  and  collected.  The  varied  thrush  or  Ore- 
gon robin  was  common,  and  its  peculiar  song  or 
plaint,  a  long,  tapering  whistle  with  a  sort  of  burr 
in  it,  led  Ridgway  a  long  chase  through  the  woods 
before  he  could  identify  the  singer.  Other  song-birds 
found  were  the  western  robin,  the  two  kinglets,  a 
song  sparrow,  the  Alaska  hermit  and  russet-backed 
thrushes,  the  lutescent  warbler,  the  redstart,  the 
Oregon  junco,  and  a  western  form  of  the  savanna 
sparrow. 

Gustavus  Peninsula  seems  to  be  a  recent  deposit 
of  the  glaciers,  and  our  experts  thought  it  not  much 
over  a  century  old.  The  botanists  here  found  a  good 
illustration  of  the  successive  steps  Nature  takes  in 
foresting  or  reforesting  the  land,  —  how  she  creeps 
before  she  walks.  The  first  shrub  is  a  small  creeping 
willow  that  looks  like  a  kind  of  "pusley."  Then 
comes  a  larger  willow,  less  creeping ;  then  two  or 
more  other  species  that  become  quite  large  upright 
bushes;  then  follow  the  alders,  and  with  them  vari- 
ous herbaceous  plants  and  grasses,  till  finally  the 
spruce  comes  in  and  takes  possession  of  the  land. 
Our  collectors  found  the  first  generation  of  trees, 
none  of  them  over  forty  years  old.  Far  up  the  moun- 
tain-side, at  a  height  of  about  two  thousand  feet,  they 
came  to  the  limit  of  the  younger  growth,  and 
found  a  well-defined  line  of  much  older  trees,  show- 
ing that  within  probably  a  hundred  years  an  ice 
sheet  two  thousand  or  more  feet  thick,  an  older  and 

45 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

larger  Miiir,  had  swept  down  the  valley  and  de« 
stroyed  the  forests. 

In  the  mean  time  the  rest  of  us  spent  the  days  on 
the  glacier  and  in  the  vicinity,  walking,  sketching, 
painting,  photographing,  dredging,  mountain  climb- 
ing, as  our  several  tastes  prompted. 

AVe  were  in  the  midst  of  strange  scenes,  hard  to 
render  in  words  :  the  miles  upon  miles  of  moraines 
upon  either  hand,  gray,  loosely  piled,  scooped, 
plowed,  channeled,  sifted,  from  fifty  to  two  hundred 
feet  high;  the  sparkling  sea  water  dotted  with  bluo 
bergs  and  loose  drift  ice  ;  the  towering  masses  of 
almost  naked  rock,  smoothed,  carved,  rounded, 
granite-ribbed,  and  snow-crowned,  that  looked  dow^n 
upon  us  from  both  sides  of  the  inlet  ;  and  the  cleft, 
toppling,  staggering  front  of  the  great  glacier  in  its 
terrible  labor-throes  stretching  before  us  from  shore 
to  shore. 

We  saw  the  world-shaping  forces  at  work  ;  we 
scrambled  over  plains  they  had  built  but  yesterday. 
We  saw  them  transport  enormous  rocks  and  tons 
on  tons  of  soil  and  debris  from  the  distant  moun- 
tains; we  saw  the  remains  of  extensive  forests  they 
had  engulfed  probably  within  the  century,  and  were 
now  uncovering  again;  we  saw  their  turbid  rushing 
streams  loaded  with  newly  ground  rocks  and  soil- 
making  material;  we  saw  the  beginnings  of  vegeta- 
tion in  tlie  tracks  of  the  retreatin<{  Hacier ;  our 
dredgers  brought  up  the  first  forms  of  sea  life  along 

4G 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

the  shore;  we  witnessed  the  formation  of  the  low 
mounds  and  ridges  and  bowl-shaped  depressions 
that  so  often  diversify  our  landscapes,  —  all  the 
while  with  the  muffled  thunder  of  the  falling  bergs 
in  our  ears. 

We  were  really  in  one  of  the  workshops  and 
laboratories  of  the  elder  gods,  but  only  in  the  gla- 
cier's front  was  there  present  evidence  that  they  were 
still  at  work.  I  wanted  to  see  them  opening  crevasses 
in  the  ice,  dropping  the  soil  and  rocks  they  had 
transported,  polishing  the  mountains,  or  blocking 
the  streams,  but  I  could  not.  They  seemed  to  knock 
off  work  when  VvC  were  watching  them.  One  day  I 
climbed  up  to  the  shoulder  of  a  huge  granite  ridge 
on  the  west,  against  which  the  glacier  pressed  and 
over  which  it  broke.  Huge  masses  of  ice  had  re- 
cently toppled  over,  a  great  fragment  of  rock  hung 
on  the  very  edge,  ready  to  be  deposited  upon  the 
ridge,  windrows  of  soil  and  gravel  and  boulders 
were  clinging  to  the  margin  of  the  ice,  but  while  I 
stayed  not  a  pebble  moved,  all  was  silence  and 
inertia.  And  I  could  look  down  between  the  glacier 
and  the  polished  mountain-side;  they  were  not  in 
contact ;  the  hand  of  the  sculptor  was  raised,  as  it 
were,  but  he  did  not  strike  while  I  was  around.  In 
front  of  me  upon  the  glacier  for  many  miles  was  a 
perfect  wilderness  of  crevasses,  the  ice  was  ridged 
and  contorted  like  an  angry  sea,  but  not  a  sound, 
not  a  movement  anywhere. 

47 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

Go  out  on  the  eastern  rim  of  the  glacier,  wherg 
for  a  dozen  miles  or  more  one  walks  upon  a  nearly 
level  plain  of  ice,  and  if  one  did  not  know  to  the  con- 
trary, he  would  be  sure  he  saw  the  agency  of  man  all 
about  him.  It  is  so  rare  to  find  Nature  working  with 
such  measure  and  precision.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a 
railroad  embankment  stretching  off  across  this  ice 
prairie,  —  a  line  of  soil,  gravel,  and  boulders,  as  uni- 
form in  width  and  thickness  as  if  every  inch  of  it  had 
been  carefully  measured,  —  straight,  level,  three 
feet  high,  and  about  the  width  of  a  single-track  road. 
The  eye  follows  it  till  it  fades  away  in  the  distance. 
Parallel  with  it  a  few  yards  away  is  another  line  of 
soil  and  gravel  more  suggestive  of  a  wagon-road, 
but  with  what  marvelous  evenness  is  the  material 
distributed  ;  it  could  not  have  been  dumped  there 
from  carts ;  it  must  have  been  sifted  out  from  some 
moving  vehicle. 

Then  one  comes  upon  a  broad  band  of  rocks  and 
boulders,  several  rods  in  width,  the  margins  per- 
fectly straight  and  even,  pointing  away  to  the  dis- 
tant mountains.  All  these  are  medial  moraines,  — 
material  irathered  from  the  mountains  aojainst  which 
the  ice  has  ground  as  it  slowly  passed,  and  brought 
hither  by  its  resistless  onward  flow.  Some  time  it 
will  all  be  dumped  at  the  end  of  the  glacier,  adding 
to  those  vast  terminal  moraines  which  form  the 
gravel  plains  that  flank  each  side  of  the  inlet.  In 
looking  at  these  plains   and   ridges  and  catching 

48 


IN   GREEN   ALASKA 

glimpses  of  the  engulfed  forests  beneath  them,  one 
feels  as  if  the  mountains  must  all  have  been  ground 
down  and  used  up  in  supplying  this  world  of  ma- 
terial. But  they  have  not.  Peak  after  peak  many 
thousand  feet  high  still  notches  the  sky  there  in  the 
north. 

The  western  part  of  the  Muir  Glacier  is  dead,  that 
is,  it  is  apparently  motionless,  and  no  longer  dis- 
charges bergs  from  its  end.  This  end,  covered  with 
soil  and  boulders,  tapers  down  to  the  ground  and 
is  easily  accessible.  Only  the  larger,  more  central 
portion  flows  and  drops  bergs  into  the  sea,  present- 
ing the  phenomenon  of  a  current  flowing  through 
a  pond,  while  on  each  side  the  water  is  all  but  mo^ 
tionless. 

Not  very  long  ago  the  Muir  had  a  large  tribu- 
tary on  the  west,  but  owing  to  its  retreating  front 
this  limb  appears  to  be  cut  off  and  separated  from 
the  main  ice  sheet  by  a  boulder  and  gravel-strewn 
ice  plain  a  mile  wide.  One  day  three  of  us  spent 
several  hours  upon  the  detached  portion  which  is 
called  the  Morse.  It  is  a  mighty  ice  sheet  in  itself, 
nearly  or  quite  a  mile  wide.  It  is  dead  or  motionless, 
and  is  therefore  free  from  crevasses.  Its  rim  comes 
down  to  the  gravel  like  a  huge  turtle  shell,  and  we 
stepped  on  it  without  difficulty.  At  first  it  was  very 
steep,  but  a  few  minutes'  climbing  brought  us  upon 
its  broad,  smooth,  gently  sloping  back.  The  exposed 
ice  weathers  rough,  and  travehng  over  it  is  easy. 

49 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

We  found  a  few  old  crevcasses,  many  deep  depres- 
sions or  valleys,  and  several  little  creeks  singing  along 
deep  down  between  blue,  vitreous  walls;  also  wells 
of  unknown  depth  and  of  strange  and  wonderful 
beauty.  AVe  came  upon  a  moraine  that  suggested  a 
tumble-down  stone  wall,  quite  as  straight  and  uni- 
form. It  soon  disappeared  beneath  the  ice,  show- 
ing what  a  depth  of  snow  had  fallen  upon  it  since 
it  started  upon  its  slow  journey  from  the  distant 
mountains.  We  pushed  up  the  gentle  slope  for  sev- 
eral miles  until  the  snow  began  to  be  over  our  shoes, 
when  we  turned  back.  I  had  climbed  hills  all  my 
life,  but  never  before  had  I  v/aiked  upon  a  hill  of 
ice  and  stopped  to  drink  at  springs  that  were  deep 
crystal  goblets. 

The  waste  of  the  Morse  Glacier  is  carried  off  by 
two  large,  turbid  streams  that  rush  from  beneath  it, 
and  on  their  way  to  the  inlet  uncover  a  portion  of  a 
buried  forest.  About  this  buried  forest  our  doctors 
did  not  agree.  The  timber,  mostly  spruce,  was  yet 
hard  and  sound,  a  fact  that  might  almost  bring  the 
event  within  the  century.  A  sheet  of  gravel  nearly 
two  hundred  feet  thick  seems  to  have  been  depos- 
ited upon  it  suddenly.  The  trees,  so  far  as  exposed, 
had  all  been  broken  off  ten  or  twelve  feet  from  the 
ground,  by  some  force  coming  from  the  west.  In 
3ome  places  the  original  forest  floor  was  laid  bare  by 
the  water ;  the  black  vegetable  mould  and  decayed 
moss  had  a  fresh,  undisturbed  look.    Evidently  no 

50 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

force  had  plowed  or  rubbed  over  the  surface  of  this 
ground. 

While  at  the  Muir  we  had  some  cloud  and  fog,  but 
no  storms,  and  we  had  one  ideal  day.  That  was 
Sunday,  the  1 1th  of  June,  a  day  all  sun  and  sky,  — 
not  a  cloud  or  film  to  dim  the  vast  blue  vault,  — 
and  warm,  even  hot,  on  shore;  a  day  memorable  to 
all  of  us  for  its  wonderful  beauty,  and  especially  so 
to  two  of  us  who  spent  it  on  the  top  of  Mt.  Wright, 
nearly  three  thousand  feet  above  the  glacier.  It  was 
indeed  a  day  with  the  gods  ;  strange  gods,  the  gods 
of  the  foreworld,  but  they  had  great  power  over  us. 
The  scene  we  looked  upon  was  for  the  most  part 
one  of  desolation,  —  snow,  ice,  jagged  peaks,  naked 
granite,  gray  moraines, — but  the  bright  sun  and 
sky  over  all,  the  genial  warmth  and  the  novelty  of 
the  situation,  were  ample  to  invest  it  with  a  fasci- 
nating interest.  There  was  fatigue  in  crossing  the 
miles  of  moraine  ;  there  was  difficulty  in  making 
our  way  along  the  sharp  crests  of  high  gravel-banks ; 
there  was  peril  in  climbing  the  steep  bculder-strevv^n 
side  of  the  mountain,  but  there  was  exhilaration  in 
every  step,  and  there  was  glory  and  inspiration  at  the 
top.  Under  a  summer  sun,  with  birds  singing  and 
flowers  blooming,  we  looked  into  the  face  of  winter 
and  set  our  feet  upon  the  edge  of  his  skirts.  But  the 
largeness  of  the  view,  the  elemental  ruggedness,  and 
the  solitude  as  of  interstellar  space  were  perhaps 
Vv^hat  took  the  deepest  hold.    It  seemed  as  if  the  old 

61 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

glacier  had  been  there  but  yesterday.  Granite 
boulders,  round  and  smooth  hke  enormous  eggs,  sat 
poised  on  tlie  rocks  or  lay  scattered  about.  A  child's 
hand  could  have  started  some  of  them  thundering 
down  the  awful  precipices.  When  the  IMuir  Glacier 
rose  to  that  height,  which  of  course  it  did  in  no  very 
remote  past,  what  an  engine  for  carving  and  polish- 
ine:  the  mountains  it  must  have  been  !  Its  moraines 
of  that  period  —  where  are  they  ?  Probably  along  the 
Pacific  coast  under  hundreds  of  fathoms  of  water. 

Back  upon  the  summit  the  snow  lay  deep,  and 
swept  up  in  a  wide  sheet  to  a  sharp,  inaccessible 
peak  far  beyond  and  above  us.  The  sweet  bird 
voices  in  this  primal  solitude  were  such  a  surprise 
and  so  welcome.  There  was  the  piercing  plaint 
of  the  golden-crow  ned  sparrow,  the  rich  warble  of 
Townsend's  fox  sparrow,  and  the  sweet  strain  of 
the  small  hermit  thrush.  The  rosy  finch  was  there 
also,  hopping  upon  the  snow,  and  the  pipit  or  titlark 
soared  and  sang  in  the  warm,  lucid  air  above  us. 
This  last  song  was  not  much  for  music,  but  the 
hovering  flight  of  the  bird  above  these  dizzy  heights 
drew  the  eye  strongly.  It  circled  about  joyously, 
calling  chip,  chip,  chip,  chip,  without  change  of 
time  or  tune.  Below  it  a  white  ptarmigan  rose  up 
and  wheeled  about,  uttering  a  curious  hoarse,  croak- 
ing sound,  and  dropped  back  to  his  mate  on  the 
rocks.  In  keeping  with  these  delicate  signs  of  bird 
life  were  the  little  pink  flowers,  a  species  of  moss 

52 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

campion,  blooming  here  and  there  just  below  the 
snow-line,  and  looking  to  unbotanical  eyes  like 
blossoming  moss.  From  the  height,  Muir  Glacier 
stretched  away  to  the  north  and  soon  became  a  sheet 
of  snow,  which  swept  up  to  the  tops  of  the  chain  of 
mountains  that  hemmed  it  in.  The  eastern  half  of 
it,  with  its  earth  tinge,  looked  like  a  prairie  newly 
plowed  and  sown  and  rolled.  The  seed  had  been 
drilled  in,  and  the  regular,  uniform,  straight  lines 
were  distinctly  visible.  Along  the  western  horizon, 
looking  down  on  the  Pacific,  the  Fairweather  Range 
of  mountains  stood  up  clear  and  sharp,  Fairweather 
itself  over  fifteen  thousand  feet  high.  The  snow 
upon  these  mountains  doubtless  in  places  lay  over 
one  hundred  feet  deep. 

Glaciers  are  formed  wherever  more  snow  falls 
in  winter  than  can  melt  in  summer,  and  this  seems 
to  be  the  case  on  all  these  Alaskan  mountains  on 
the  Pacific  coast.  If  by  a  change  of  climate  more 
snow  should  fall  in  the  Hudson  River  valley  than 
could  melt  in  summer,  our  landscapes  would  soon 
be  invaded  by  glaciers  from  the  Catskills.  Farther 
north  in  Alaska,  beyond  the  reach  of  the  moisture- 
loaded  Pacific  air  currents,  the  precipitation  is  less 
and  there  are  no  glaciers. 

SITKA 

On  the  13th  of  June  we  weighed  anchor,  and  after 
picking   up    our   camping    and    exploring   parties, 

53 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

steamed  away  toward  Sitka,  where  we  arrived 
under  dripping  skies  the  next  morning.  We  had 
come  from  air  and  water  streaked  with  icy  currents, 
to  much  warmer  and  to  much  moister  conditions. 
Sitka  is  said  to  be  one  of  the  rainiest  spots  on  the 
coast,  but  the  four  days  we  passed  there  were  not 
so  bad :  sun  and  cloud  and  spurts  of  rain  each  day, 
but  no  considerable  downpour.  We  came  into  the 
island-studded  and  mountain-locked  harbor  from 
the  north,  and  saw  the  town,  with  its  quaint  old 
government  buildings  and  its  line  of  Indian  houses 
close  to  the  beach,  outlined  against  a  near-by  back- 
ground of  steep,  high,  spruce-covered  and  snow- 
capped mountains,  with  the  white  volcanic  cone  of 
Edgecumbe  three  thousand  feet  high  toward  the 
open  ocean  on  our  right. 

People  actually  live  in  Sitka  from  choice,  and 
seem  to  find  life  sweet.  There  are  homes  of  culture 
and  refinement  there.  Governor  Brady  is  a  Yale 
graduate,  and  his  accomplished  wife  would  shine 
in  any  society.  At  a  reception  given  us  by  the 
governor,  we  met  teachers  from  New  England  and 
people  who  keep  in  touch  with  current  literature. 
A  retired  naval  officer  told  us  he  liked  the  Sitka 
climate  and  life  the  best  of  any  he  had  found.  He 
and  his  family  throve  the  best  there.  We  spent 
the  time  after  the  usual  manner  of  tourists :  walk- 
ing about  the  town,  visiting  the  Indian  village, 
the  museum,  the  Greek  church,  going  to  the  Hot 

54 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

Springs,  a  few  hours'  sail  to  the  south,  exploring 
Indian  River,  a  large,  ideal  trout  stream  in  appear- 
ance, making  a  trip  to  some  near-by  mines,  and 
climbing  the  mountains.  It  was  not  a  good  place 
for  our  collectors;  there  were  but  few  birds,  and 
they  were  very  wild.  Our  mammal  collectors  put 
out  one  hundred  small  traps  and  caught  only  two 
mice.  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  see  and  hear  the 
water  ouzel  along  Indian  River,  a  bird  like  a  big 
water-colored  pebble,  with  a  hquid,  bubbling  song, 
caught  from  the  currents  about  it.  Here  also  I 
saw  the  golden-crowned  kinglet,  the  varied  thrush, 
the  russet-backed  thrush,  and  the  rufous  chickadee. 
Ravens  were  very  common  everywhere  in  the  town 
and  about  it,  and  were  talking  and  croaking  all 
the  time.  Often  a  solitary  bird  seemed  to  be  so- 
liloquizing and  repeating  over  to  himself  every 
note  he  knew.  One  day  a  hunting  party,  with  In- 
dian guides  and  dogs,  visited  one  of  the  islands  in 
quest  of  deer;  the  only  deer  that  fell  to  their  rifles 
was  killed  by  Mr.  Harriman's  eldest  daughter, 
Mary. 

It  was  a  surprise  to  see  the  vast  spruce  forests 
about  Sitka  almost  untouched  by  the  axe,  except  on 
a  small  area  behind  the  town.  In  the  forest  near  the 
mouth  of  Indian  River  I  noticed  a  few  huge  si^umps 
twelve  feet  high,  as  if  the  axe  that  felled  the  trees  had 
been  wielded  by  giants.  The  cutting  had  probably 
been  done  from  raised  platforms.   Some  of  the  stumps 

65 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

were  ver}'  old,  doubtless  the  work  of  the  Russians. 
Sitka  is  ver}^  prettily  situated ;  a  rin^];  of  high,  dark, 
snow-topped  mountains  just  behind  it,  and  a  spar- 
kling bay,  dotted  with  islands,  rock-based  and  tree- 
crowned,  in  its  front,  with  white  volcanic  cones  in 
the  distance.  About  the  only  bit  of  smooth  dirt-road 
we  saw  in  Alaska,  we  walked  on  here  for  the  distance 
of  a  mile,  in  going  from  the  town  to  the  park. 

IN  YAKUTAT   BAY 

After  four  warm,  humid  days  at  Sitka  we  turned 
our  faces  for  the  first  time  toward  the  open  ocean, 
our  objective  point  being  Yakutat  Bay,  a  day's  run 
farther  north.  The  usual  Alaska  excursion  ends  at 
Sitka,  but  ours  was  now  only  fairly  begun.  The 
Pacific  was  very  good  to  us,  and  used  us  as  gently  as 
an  inland  lake,  there  being  only  a  long,  low,  sleepy 
swell  that  did  not  disturb  the  most  sensitive.  The 
next  day,  Sunday  the  18th,  was  mild  and  placid. 
Far  at  sea  on  our  left  we  looked  into  a  world  of  sun- 
shine, but  above  us  and  on  our  right  lay  a  heavy 
blanket  of  clouds,  enveloping  and  blotting  out  all 
the  upper  portions  of  the  great  Fairweather  Range. 
We  steamed  all  day  a  few  miles  offshore,  hoping 
that  the  great  peaks,  some  of  them  fifteen  thousand 
to  sixteen  thousand  feet  high,  would  reveal  them- 
selves, but  they  did  not.  We  saw  them  only  from 
the  waist  down,  as  it  were,  with  their  glaciers  like 
vast  white  aprons  flanked  by  skirts  of  spruce  forests. 

56 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

One  of  these  glaciers,  La  Perouse,  came  quite  down 
to  the  sea,  with  a  front  a  mile  or  more  long  and  two 
hundred  feet  high.  At  one  point  it  had  cut  into  the 
edge  of  the  forest,  and  shoved  and  piled  up  the  trees 
and  soil  as  a  heavy  vehicle  shoves  and  folds  up  the 
turf.  This,  of  course,  showed  that  quite  recently 
the  glacier  had  had  a  period  of  advance  or  augmen- 
tation, and  had  encroached  upon  its  banks.  We 
stopped  an  hour  in  front  of  it  and  put  a  party  ashore, 
but  they  learned  little  that  could  not  be  divined 
from  the  ship.  They  found  a  heavy  surf  running, 
and  did  not  get  through  it  on  their  return  without  an 
acquaintance  with  the  Pacific  more  intimate  than 
agreeable.  All  day  long  we  were  in  sight  of  glaciers, 
usually  two  or  three  at  a  time,  some  of  them  im- 
mense, all  the  offspring  of  the  great  Fairweather 
Range.  Now  and  then  the  back  of  one  some  miles 
inland  would  show  above  a  low  wooded  ridire,  a  line 
of  white  above  an  expanse  of  black,  like  the  crest  of 
a  river  about  to  overflow  its  banks.  One  broad  ice 
slope  I  recall  which,  with  its  dark,  straight  lines  of 
moraine  dividing  it  into  three  equal  portions,  sug- 
gested a  side-hill  farm  in  winter  with  the  tops  of  the 
stone  walls  showing  above  the  snow.  It  had  a 
friendly,  home  look  to  me. 

On  the  morning  of  the  19th  we  were  at  anchor 
in  front  of  the  Indian  village  in  Yakutat  Bay.  This 
bay  is  literally  like  an  arm,  a  huge  arm  of  the  sea, 
very  broad  and  heavy  at  the  shoulder,  much  flexed 

57 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

at  the  elbow,  where  it  breaks  into  the  St.  EHas 
Range,  and  long  and  slender  in  the  forearm,  whieh 
is  thrust  through  the  mountains  till  it  nearly  reaches 
the  sea  again.      Eight  or  ten   comfortable  frame 
houses,  with  a  store  and  post-office,  made  up  the 
Indian  village  known  on  the  map  as  Yakutat.   It  sat 
low  on  a  wooded  point  just  to  one  side  of  the  broad 
entrance  to  the  bay.   There  were  upwards  of  a  hun- 
dred people  there,  looked  after  by  a  Swedish  mis- 
sionary.   We  soon  proceeded  up  the  bay,  with  the 
great  Malaspina  Glacier  on  our  left,  and  put  off 
three  hunting  and  collecting  parties,  to  be  absent 
from  the  ship  till  Thursday.    The  event  of  this  day 
was  the  view  of  Mt.  St.  Elias  that  was  vouchsafed 
us  for  half  an  hour  in  the  afternoon.    The  base  and 
lower  ranges  had  been  visi'nle  for  some  time,  bathed 
in  clear  sunshine,  but  a  heavy  canopy  of  dun-colored 
clouds  hung  above  us,  and  stretched  av»'ay  toward 
the  mountain,  dropping  down  there  in  many  cur- 
tain-like folds,  hiding  the  peak.     But  the  scene- 
shifters  were  at  work  ;  slowly  the  heavy  folds  of 
clouds  that  limited  our  view  yielded  and  were  spun 
off  by  the  air  currents,  till  at  last  the  veil  was  com- 
pletely rent,  and  there,  in  the  depths  of  clear  air  and 
sunshine,  the  huge  mass  soared  to  heaven. 

There  is  sublimity  in  the  sight  of  a  summer 
thunder-head  with  its  great  white  and  dun  convolu- 
tions rising  up  for  miles  against  the  sky,  but  there  is 
more  in  the  vision  of  a  j nidged  mountain  crest  pier- 

6S 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

cing  the  blue  at  even  a  lesser  height.  This  is  partly 
because  it  is  a  much  rarer  spectacle,  but  mainly 
because  it  is  a  display  of  power  that  takes  greater 
hold  of  the  imagination.  That  hft  heavenward  of 
the  solid  crust  of  the  earth,  that  aspiration  of  the 
insensate  rocks,  that  effort  of  the  whole  range,  as  it 
were,  to  carry  one  peak  into  heights  where  all  may 
not  go,  —  every  lower  summit  seeming  to  second 
it  and  shoulder  it  forward  till  it  stands  there  in  a 
kind  of  serene  astronomic  solitude  and  remote- 
ness,—  is  a  vision  that  always  shakes  the  heart  of 
the  beholder. 

Later  in  the  day  we  continued  our  course  up  the 
bay  through  much  drift  ice,  and  were  soon  in  sight 
of  two  large  glaciers,  the  Turner  and  the  Hubbard. 
Both  presented  long,  high  palisades  of  ice  to  the 
water,  like  the  Muir,  but  were  far  less  active  and 
explosive.  The  Hubbard  Glacier  is  just  at  the  sharp 
bend  of  the  elbow,  a  regular  "fiddler's"  elbow, 
where  the  bay,  much  narrowed,  turns  abruptly  from 
northeast  to  south.  Here,  with  a  Yakutat  Indian  for 
pilot,  we  entered  upon  the  strange  and  weird  scen- 
ery of  Russell  Fiord,  and  into  waters  that  no  ship  as 
large  as  ours  had  before  navigated.  This  part  of  the 
bay  is  in  size  like  the  Hudson  and  about  sixty  miles 
in  length,  but  how  wild  and  savage!  A  succession  of 
mountains  of  almost  naked  rock,  now  scored  and 
scalloped  and  polished  by  the  old  glaciers,  now  with 
vast  moraines  upon  their  sides  or  heaped  at  their 

59 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

feet,  which  the  rains  and  melting  snows  have  plowed 
and  ribbed  and  carved  into  many  fantastic  forms. 
There  was  an  air  of  seclusion  and  remoteness  about 
it  all,  as  if  this  had  been  a  special  playground  of  the 
early  ice  gods,  a  nook  or  alley  set  apart  for  them  in 
which  to  indulge  every  whim  and  fancy.  And  what 
could  be  more  whimsical  or  fantastic  than  yonder 
glacier  playing  the  mountain  goat,  clinging  to  the 
steep  sides  of  the  mountain  or  breaking  over  its 
cliffs  and  yet  falling  not,  hanging  there  Hke  a  con^ 
gealed  torrent,  a  silent  and  motionless  shadow.  The 
eye  seems  baffled.  Surely  the  ice  is  plunging  or  will 
plunge  the  next  second:  but  no,  there  it  is  fixed;  it 
bends  over  the  brink,  it  foams  below,  but  no  sound 
is  heard  and  no  movement  is  apparent.  You  see  the 
corrugated  surface  where  it  emerges  from  its  great 
snow  reservoir  on  the  mountain  summit;  it  shows 
deep  crevasses  where  it  sweeps  down  a  steep  incline, 
then  curves  across  a  terrace,  then  leaps  in  solid, 
fixed  foam  down  the  face  of  the  clifi,  to  which  it 
seems  bound  as  by  some  magic. 

These  precipice  glaciers  apparently  move  no  faster 
than  those  in  the  valley.  It  is  in  all  cases  a  subtle, 
invisible  movement,  like  that  of  the  astronomic 
bodies.  It  would  seem  as  if  gravity  had  little  to  do 
with  it.  They  do  not  gain  momentum  like  an  ava- 
lanche of  snow  or  earth,  but  creep  so  slowly  that  to 
the  lookers-on  they  are  as  motionless  as  the  rocks 
themselves.     The  grade,  the  obstacles  in  the  way, 

CO 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

ieem  to  make  no  difference.  One  would  think  that 
if  a  mass  of  ice,  weighing  many  thousand  tons, 
hanging  upon  the  face  of  a  mountain-wall  steeper 
than  a  house  roof,  detached  itself  from  the  rest  at  all 
and  began  to  move,  it  would  gain  momentum  and 
presently  shoot  down,  as  the  loosened  ice  and  snow 
do  from  our  slate  roofs.  But  it  does  not.  If  the  tem- 
perature of  the  rocks  were  suddenly  raised  as  in  the 
case  of  the  roof,  no  doubt  the  glacier  would  shoot, 
but  it  is  not.  The  under  surface  of  the  ice  is  prob- 
ably perpetually  congealed  and  perpetually  loos- 
ened, and  the  crystallization  is  constantly  broken 
and  constantly  reformed,  so  that  the  glacier's  motion 
is  more  a  creeping  than  a  sliding.  The  carving  and 
sculpturing  of  the  rocks  is  of  course  done  by  the 
pebbles  and  boulders  beneath  the  ice,  and  these 
must  slide  or  roll. 

We  followed  the  bay  or  inlet  to  its  head,  and 
anchored  for  the  night  in  the  large  oval  that  marks 
its  termination.  We  were  about  fifteen  miles  from 
the  Pacific,  being  separated  from  it  by  a  low,  level 
moraine  of  the  old  glaciers.  We  were  now  sur- 
rounded by  low  wooded  shores,  from  which  in  the 
long  twilight  came  the  sweet  vespers  of  the  little 
hermit  thrush. 

On  the  20th  another  hunting  party  went  out 
from  the  ship,  and  with  an  Indian  guide  climbed 
and  threaded  the  snow-covered  mountains  nearly 
all  day  in  quest  of  bears,  but  came  back  as  empty 

61 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

handed  as  it  had  set  out.  The  ship  in  the  mean 
time  steamed  back  ten  miles  to  a  side  arm  of  the  bay, 
at  tlie  head  of  which  is  Hidden  Glacier,  so  called 
because  hidden  from  view  behind  a  shoulder  of  the 
mountain.  A  broad  gravel-bed  with  a  stream  wind- 
ing through  it,  which  the  retreating  glacier  had 
uncovered,  was  alone  visible  from  the  ship.  While 
Gannett  and  Gilbert  proceeded  to  survey  and  map 
the  glacier,  many  of  us  wandered  on  shore  amid 
a  world  of  moraines  and  gravel-banks.  In  the  after- 
noon we  moved  to  the  vicinity  of  the  Hubbard  Gla- 
cier, where  the  ship  took  a  fresh  supply  of  water 
from  a  mountain  torrent,  while  the  glacier  hunters 
viewed  the  Nunatak  Glacier,  and  the  mineralogists 
with  their  hammers  prowled  upon  the  shore.  My 
own  diversion  that  afternoon  was  to  climb  one  of 
the  near  mountains  to  an  altitude  of  about  twenty- 
five  hundred  feet,  where  I  looked  dov/n  at  a  fearful 
angle  into  the  sea,  and  where  I  found  my  first  tit- 
lark's nest.  The  bird  with  her  shining  eyes  looked 
out  upon  me,  and  upon  the  sublime  scene,  from  a 
little  cavity  in  a  mossy  bank  near  the  snow^-line.  Her 
nest  held  six  dark-brown  eggs.  Some  pussy  willows 
near  by  were  just  starting.  I  thought  to  reach  the 
peak  of  the  mountain  up  a  broad  and  very  steep 
band  of  snow,  but  I  looked  back  once  too  often.  The 
descent  to  the  sea  was  too  easy  and  too  fearful  for 
my  imagination,  so  I  cautiously  turned  back.  In  a 
large  patch  of  alders  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  four 

G'2 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

or  five  species  of  birds  were  nesting  and  in  song. 
The  most  welcome  sight  to  me  was  a  soHtary  barn 
swallow  skimming  along  as  one  might  have  seen  it 
at  home,  —  no  barns  within  hundreds  of  miles,  yet 
the  little  swallow  seemed  quite  at  her  ease. 

While  we  were  anchored  here,  we  had  another 
brief  vision  of  surpassing  mountain  grandeur.  The 
fair  weather  divinities  brushed  aside  the  veil  of 
clouds,  and  one  of  the  lofty  peaks  to  the  north, 
probably  Vancouver,  stood  revealed  to  us.  We 
yielded  to  its  mighty  spell  for  a  few  moments,  and 
then  the  cloud  curtain  again  dropped. 

The  next  day  we  left  Russell  Fiord,  and  anchored 
before  an  Indian  encampment  below  Haenke  Is- 
land, on  the  south  side  of  the  head  of  Yakutat  Bay. 
The  Indians  had  come  up  from  their  village  below, 
■ — some  of  them,  w^e  w^ere  told,  from  as  far  away 
as  Sitka.  They  were  living  here  in  tents  and  bark 
huts,  and  hunting  the  hair  seal  amid  the  drifting  ice- 
bergs that  the  Turner  and  the  Hubbard  cast  off. 
This  was  their  summer  camp;  they  were  laying  in 
a  supply  of  skins  and  oil  against  their  winter  needs. 
In  July  they  go  to  the  salmon  streams  and  secure 
their  stores  of  salmon.  During  these  excursions 
their  village  at  Yakutat  is  nearly  deserted.  The 
encampment  we  visited  was  upon  the  beach  of  a 
broad,  gravelly  delta  flanked  by  high  mountains.  It 
was  redolent  of  seal  oil.  The  dead  carcasses  of  the 
seals  lay  in  rows  upon  the  pebbles  in  front  of  the 

63 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

tents  and  huts.  The  women  and  girls  were  skin- 
ning them,  and  cutting  out  the  blubber  and  tr}dng 
it  out  in  pots  over  smouldering  fires,  while  the  crack 
of  the  men's  shotguns  could  be  heard  out  amid  the 
ice.  Apparently  their  only  food  at  such  times  is  seal 
meat,  with  parts  of  the  leaf  or  stalk  of  a  kind  of  cow- 
parsnip,  a  coarse,  rank  plant  that  grows  all  about. 
The  Indian  women  frowned  upon  our  photogra- 
phers, and  were  very  averse  to  having  the  cameras 
pointed  at  them.  It  took  a  good  deal  of  watching 
and  waiting  and  manoeuvring  to  get  a  good  shot. 
The  artists,  with  their  brushes  and  canvases,  were 
regarded  with  less  suspicion. 

The  state  of  vegetation  in  Yakutat  Bay  was  like 
that  of  early  May  in  New  York,  though  the  temper- 
ature was  lower.  Far  up  the  mountain-side  near  the 
line  of  snow  the  willows  were  just  pushing  out.  At 
their  base  the  columbine,  rock-loving  as  at  home, 
but  larger  and  coarser-flowered,  was  in  bloom, 
and  blue  violets  could  be  gathered  by  the  handful. 
Back  of  the  encampment  were  acres  of  lupine  just 
bursting  into  flower.  It  gave  a  gay,  festive  look  to 
the  place.  Red-vested  bumble-bees  were  working 
eagerly  upon  it.  The  yellow  warbler  was  nesting  in 
the  alders  near  by.  New  birds  added  to  our  list  from 
these  shores  were  the  pine  grosbeak,  the  Arctic  tern, 
and  the  robber  jaeger.  No  large  game  was  secured 
by  our  hunters  in  Yakutat  Bay,  though  Captain 
Kelly  declared  he  was  at  one  time  so  near  a  beai 

64 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

that  he  could  smell  him.   The  bear  undoubtedly  got 
a  smell  of  the  ^aptain  first. 

Our  party  had  now  been  a  month  together,  and 
had  assumed  the  features  of  a  large  and  happy 
family  on  a  summer  holiday  cruise.  We  were  of 
diverse  interests  and  types  of  character,  yet  one  in 
the  spirit  of  true  comradeship.  This  fortunate  con- 
dition was  due  largely  to  the  truly  democratic  and 
manly  character  of  the  head  of  the  expedition,  Mr. 
Harriman,  and  to  the  cheerful  and  obliging  temper 
of  Captain  Doran.  The  pleasure  of  the  party  was 
the  pleasure  of  our  host  and  of  the  captain.  The 
ship  was  equally  at  the  service  of  men  who  wanted 
to  catch  mice  or  collect  a  new  bird,  and  of  those 
who  wanted  to  survey  a  glacier  or  inlet  or  to  shoot 
a  bear.  One  day  it  made  a  voyage  of  sixty  miles 
to  enable  our  collectors  to  take  up  some  traps,  the 
total  catch  of  which  proved  to  be  nine  mice.  The 
next  day  it  was  as  likely  to  go  as  far  to  enable  Ritter 
and  Saunders  to  dredge  for  new  forms  of  sea  life, 
or  Devereux  to  inspect  some  outcropping  of  copper 
ore.  Early  in  the  voyage  our  committee  on  enter- 
tainment arranged  a  course  of  lectures.  Nearly 
every  night  at  eight  o'clock,  on  the  upper  deck  or 
in  the  Social  Hall,  some  one  of  our  college  professors 
or  government  specialists  held  forth.  One  night  it 
was  Dall  upon  the  history  or  geography  of  Alaska; 
then  Gilbert  upon  the  agency  of  glaciers  in  shaping 
the  valleys  and  mountains,  or  upon  the  glaciers  we 

65 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

had  recently  visited;  then  Brewer  upon  climate  and 
ocean  currents,  or  Covillc  upon  some  botanical  fea- 
tures of  the  regions  about  us,  or  Ritter  upon  the 
shore  forms  of  sea  life,  or  Emerson  upon  volcanoes 
and  lava  beds,  or  John  INluir  on  his  experiences 
upon  the  glaciers  and  his  adventure  with  his  dog 
Stikeen  in  crossing  a  huge  crevasse  on  a  sliver  of  ice, 
or  Charles  Keeler  on  the  coloration  of  birds,  or 
Fuertes  on  bird-songs,  or  Grinnell  on  Indian  tribes 
and  Indian  characteristics,  and  so  on.  On  Sunday 
evenings  Dr.  Nelson  conducted  the  Episcopal  ser- 
vice and  preached  a  sermon,  while  at  other  times 
books  and  music  and  games  added  to  the  attraction 
of  the  Social  Hall. 

PRINCE   WILLIAM    SOUND 

After  several  days  in  Yakutat  Bay  we  steamed 
northward  again,  bound  for  Prince  William  Sound. 
The  fog  and  cloud  hid  the  St.  Elias  Range,  but  the 
great  Malaspina  Glacier  was  visible  on  our  right. 
This  is  the  largest  of  the  Alaskan  glaciers,  covering 
fifteen  hundred  square  miles.  It  has  a  front  of  fifty 
miles  on  the  sea,  and  runs  back  thirty  miles  to  the 
St.  Elias  Range,  from  which  it  is  fed.  It  is  a  vast 
plain  of  ice,  with  lakes  and  rivers,  and  with  hills  of 
rocks  and  gravel  that  have  trees  and  alders  growing 
upon  them.  One  of  our  hunting  parties  touched  the 
skirts  of  it,  and  saw  where  the  earth  and  alders  had 
slid  off  over  quite  an  area,  exposing  the  ice.     Its 

66 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

Yakutat  side  seems  stagnant  ;  it  no  longer  dis- 
charges bergs  into  the  sea,  and  will  in  time  })robal)ly 
drop  its  vast  burden  of  medial  moraine  upon  the 
ground  beneath.  We  caught  glimpses  of  its  nu- 
merous feeders  below  the  clouds  along  the  base 
of  St.  Elias,  but  of  the  glacier  itself  we  saw  only  the 
earth-covered  margin  it  presents  to  the  sea.  The 
discharge  of  roily  water  from  beneath  it  is  so  great 
that  it  colors  the  sea  over  an  area  equal  to  its  own; 
"  glacier  milk,"  some  one  called  it,  and  it  gives  the 
Pacific  a  milky  tinge  for  thirty  miles  offshore. 

I  must  not  forget  the  albatross  that  found  us  out 
and  followed  our  ship  when  we  had  been  but  a  few 
hours  at  sea,  wheeling  around  us  close  to  the  water, 
coming  and  going,  now  on  one  side,  now  on  the 
other,  slanting  and  curving,  and  all  on  straight, 
unbending  wing.  Its  apparently  toilless,  effortless 
flio^ht  and  its  air  of  absolute  leisure  were  verv  curi- 
ous  and  striking,  —  it  seemed  like  the  spirit  of  the 
deep  taking  visible  form  and  seeking  to  wxave  some 
spell  upon  us  or  lure  us  away  to  destruction.  Never 
before  had  I  seen  flying  so  easy  and  spontaneous,  — 
not  an  action,  not  a  thought,  not  an  effort,  but  a 
dream.  What  a  contrast  to  the  flight  of  the  Arctic 
tern  which  we  first  saw  in  Yakutat  Bay,  a  bird  with 
long,  sickle-shaped  wings,  with  which  it  fairly  reaped 
the  air.  The  flight  of  the  albatross  was  a  series  of 
long,  graceful  strokes,  unlike  that  of  any  other  bird 
I  have  ever  seen. 

fi7 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

About  noon  on  the  24th,  amid  fog  and  light  rain, 
we   sitdited    Middleton    Island   on   our   starboard, 
when  the  ship  turned  her  head  sharply  northward 
toward  the  entrance  to  the  sound.    In  a  few  hours 
we  ran  out  of  the  fog  into  clear  skies,  and  were  soon 
steamins:  across  the  srreat  sound  in  warm  sunshine. 
Our  route  was   a  devious  one:    past   islands  and 
headlands,  then  over  the  immense  expanse  of  the 
open  water  with  a  circle  of  towering,  snow-capped 
mountains  far  off   along  1he  horizon,   then  wind- 
injr  throujjh  arms  and  straits,  close   to  tree-tufted 
islands    and    steep,    spruce-clad    mountains,    now 
looking  between   near-by  dark  forested  hills  upon 
a  group  of  distant  peaks  white  as  midwinter,  then 
upon  broad,  low,  wooded  shores  with  glimpses  of 
open,  meadow-like  glades  among  the  trees,  suggest- 
ing tender  grass  and  grazing  herds,  till  in  the  early 
evening  we  sighted  a  Uttle  cluster  of  buildings  peep- 
ing out  of  the  forest  at  the  base  of  a  lofty  moun- 
tain.   This  was  Orca,  where  there  is  a  large  salmon 
cannery  and  a  post-office.   Here  we  anchored  for  the 
night.  In  the  long  twilight  some  of  our  party  climbed 
to  the  top  of  the  mountain,  twenty-five  hundred  feet 
in  height,  and  brought  back  a  native  heather,  —  bry- 
anthus,  —  in  bloom.     Others  of  us  wandered  upon 
the  beach,  and  engaged  in  conversation  with  some 
gold-seekers  just  out  from  Copper  River.  They  were 
encamped  here,  waiting  for  a  steamer  to  take  \hcm 
away  and  for  funds  from  friends  at  home  to  enable 

68 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

them  to  get  away.    It  was  a  story  of  hardships  and 
disappointment  that  they  had  to  tell  us,  — yes,  and 
of  scurvy  and  death.    Over  three  thousand  men  had 
gone  into  the  Copper  River  region  a  year  or  more 
before  on  the  wildest,  vaguest  rumor  of  gold.   They 
had  gone  in  hurriedly  and  slyly,  as  it  were,  so  as  to 
be  ahead  of  the  crowd.    Each  man  had  taken  sup- 
plies  to  last  him  a  year,  at  least.     Now  they  were 
coming  out  destitute  and  without  one  cent's  worth 
of  gold ;  many  of  them  had  died.  Scurvy  had  broken 
out  among  them,  had  sv/ept  away  scores  of  them, 
and  had  lamed  and  disabled  others.   Their  toils  and 
privations  had  been  terrible;   snow,  glaciers,  moun- 
tains, swollen  rivers,  had  blocked  their  way.   Most 
of  them  had  abandoned  their  unconsumed  supplies 
and  extra  blankets,  content  to  get  out  with  their 
lives.   They  were  from  the  East  and  from  the  West, 
lumbermen  from  Maine  and  Pennsylvania  and  old 
miners  from  California  and  Colorado.   They  were  a 
sturdy,  sober-looking  set  of  men  that  we  saw,  no 
nonsense  about  them.     Such  hardships  and  disap- 
pointments seem  to  sweep  away  everything  affected 
and  meretricious  in  a  man,  and  uncover  and  bring 
out  the  bedrock  of  character,  if  there  is  any  in  him. 
In  this  crowd  two  large,  powerful  men,  father  and 
son,  were  especially  noticeable.    The  father,  a  man 
probably  of  sixty-five  years,  had  nearly  died  with 
scurvy  and  was  still  very  lame,  and  the  tenderness 
and  soHcitude  of  the  son  toward  him  warmed  ray 

69 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

heart,  — homely,  slow,  deliberate  men,  but  evidcntty 
made  of  the  real  stuff.  These  stranded  men  were 
penniless,  and  were  depending  upon  the  charity,  or 
the  willingness  to  trust,  of  the  steamboat  company 
to  take  them  home  to  San  Francisco.  I  was  glad 
when  I  saw  them  depart  on  the  steamer  the  next  day. 
Alaska  is  full  of  such  adventurers  ransacking  the 
land.  We  heard  of  them  at  several  other  points :  men 
looking  for  new  Klondikes,  exploring  remote  corners, 
going  eagerly  and  quietly  into  the  wilderness,  cross- 
ing glaciers,  rivers,  and  mountains,  hoping  to  be  the 
first  in  new  and  rich  fields. 

Sunday  the  25th  was  another  day  of  great  beauty. 
We  spent  the  main  part  of  it  steaming  across  the 
sound  toward  some  of  the  more  remote  inlets.  It 
was  an  ideal  day,  an  ideal  sail ;  a  day  to  bask  in  the 
sunshine  upon  the  upper  deck  and  leisurely  contem- 
plate the  vast  shifting  panorama  of  sea  and  islands 
and  wooded  shores  and  towering  peaks  spread  be- 
fore us  on  every  hand  ;  a  day  that  gave  us  another 
feast  of  beauty  and  sublimity,  and  that  stands  out  in 
the  memory  unforgettable !  We  were  afloat  in  an 
enchanted  circle  ;  we  sailed  over  magic  seas  under 
magic  skies  ;  we  played  hide  and  seek  with  winter 
in  lucid  sunshine  over  blue  and  emerald  waters,  — 
all  the  conditions,  around,  above,  below  us  were 
most  fortunate. 

Prince  William  Sound  is  shaped  like  a  great  spi- 
der: an  open,  irregular  body  of  water  eighty  miles 

70 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

or  more  across,  fringed  with  numerous  arms  and 
inlets  that  reach  far  in  amid  the  mountains.  Across 
the  head  of  most  of  these  arms  are  huge  glaciers; 
others  hang  upon  the  mountain-sides  or  cascade 
down  them.  It  was  toward  the  head  of  one  of  these 
inlets  that  we  were  now  bound.  In  the  afternoon  we 
reached  its  end,  and  saw  another  palisade  of  shat- 
tered ice,  about  two  hundred  feet  high  and  four 
miles  long,  barring  our  way.  We  named  this  the 
Columbia  Glacier.  Its  front  was  quite  as  imposing 
as  that  of  the  Muir,  but  it  was  less  active;  appar- 
ently no  large  blue  bergs  are  born  out  of  its  depth, 
for  the  reason,  doubtless,  that  its  depth  is  not  great. 
On  a  wooded  island  near  its  front  we  left  two  of  our 
geologists  to  survey  and  report  upon  it.  At  eight 
o'clock  that  Sunday  evening  we  were  at  anchor  in 
Virgin  Bay,  with  low,  partly  wooded  islands  on  the 
one  hand,  and  sloping  open  shores  at  the  foot  of  tall 
mountains  on  the  other.  Two  or  three  small  houses 
were  seen  scattered  along  the  shore  on  the  margin  of 
these  broad,  natural,  grassy  clearings.  Copper  ore 
had  been  found  here  and  there  near  the  cabins  of  the 
prospectors.  On  two  of  the  islands  near  us  were  fox 
farms.  One  of  the  farmers  came  off  in  his  boat  to 
see  us,  and  talked  intelligently  about  his  enterprise. 
His  foxes  would  swim  to  an  adjoining  island  a  few 
hundred  yards  away,  so  his  brother  had  established 
a  fox  farm  there.  Blue  foxes  are  the  species  cul- 
tivated ;  their  main  food  in  winter   is  dried  fish 

71 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

caught  during  the  summer  out  of  the  surroun(h*ng 
waters.  Each  island  contained  several  hundred 
acres,  mostly  covered  with  spruce.  Upon  the  subject 
of  profits  he  could  not  yet  speak,  as  the  enterprise 
was  new.  We  here  saw  our  first  Eskimo.  He  came 
paddling  toward  our  ship  in  a  double  kyak,  and  as 
our  naphtha  launch  circled  about  him,  he  had  an 
amused,  childish  look. 

We  put  a  party  ashore  to  spend  a  couple  of  days 
hunting  and  collecting.  After  the  Sunday  evening 
service,  the  sun  was  still  glowing  upon  the  distant 
white  peaks,  and  a  dozen  or  more  of  us  seized  the 
occasion  to  go  ashore  and  walk  in  the  long  twilight 
upon  the  strange  land.  How  novel  and  bewitching  it 
all  was!  The  open  meadow-like  expanse  near  the 
beach  proved  to  be  tundra,  —  wet,  spongy,  mossy, 
grassy,  and  full  of  wild  flowers,  the  most  conspicu- 
ously beautiful  of  which  was  the  shooting-star  or 
dodecatheon.  Our  collectors  had  pitched  their  tents 
near  the  log  cabin  of  two  prospectors,  on  a  point  of 
land  at  the  mouth  of  a  clear,  rapid  stream.  The  her- 
mit thrush  sang  in  the  forest  close  by  ;  the  stream 
sang,  and  the  air  under  the  shadow  of  the  mountain 
was  pervaded  with  a  strange  peace  and  charm.  The 
only  singing  that  was  not  so  agreeable  was  that  of  the 
mosquitoes,  but  amid  such  scenes  petty  annoyances 
are  soon  forgotten.  One  of  the  prospectors,  a  brisk 
little  man,  whose  clean,  snug  cabin  we  \asited,  was 
born  near  North  Cape  in  Norway.     He  had  been 

72 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

here  over  a  year,  and  as  our  ladies  were  the  first  who 
had  ever  visited  his  camp,  he  took  off  his  hat  and, 
with  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  made  a  gallant  bow  to 
them  in  acknowledgment.  He  was  planning  to  go 
to  the  Paris  Exposition  next  year,  and  life  seemed 
to  offer  him  many  bright  outlooks. 

The  next  day,  Monday  the  26th,  we  spent  in  Port 
Wells,   the  extreme  northeast  arm  of  the  sound, 
taking  in  water  from  a  foaming  mountain  torrent 
and  again  coquetting  with  glaciers.     The  weather 
was  fair,  but  the  sea  air  was  cold.   Indeed,  we  were 
in  another  great  ice  chest,  —  glaciers  to  right  of  us, 
glaciers  to  left  of  us,  glaciers  in  front  of  us,  volleyed 
and  thundered  ;  the  mountains  were  ribbed  with 
them,  and  the  head  of  the  bay  was  walled  with 
them.    At  one  time  we  could  see  five,  separated  by 
intervals  of  a  few  miles,  cascading  down  from  the 
heights,  while  the  chief  of  the  flock  was  booming  in- 
cessantly at  the  head  of  the  valley.    The  two  large 
glaciers  at  the  head  of  the  fiord  were  named  by  our 
party  Harvard  and  Yale ;  the  cascading  glaciers  on 
the  west  side,  Radcliffe,  Smith,  Bryn  Mawr,  Vassar, 
and  Wellesley;  and  the  main  glacier  on  the  east  side 
of  Port  Wells,  Amherst.   On  going  ashore  we  had  a 
chance  to  view,  in  profile,  those  pouring  down  from 
the  heights,  and  the  effect  was  novel  and  strange. 
We  looked  along  the  green,  tender  enfoliaged  side  of 
the  mountain  and  saw  one  of  these  torrents  of  shat- 
tered ice  rising  up  fifty  or  more  feet  above  its  banks, 

73 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

and  as  if  about  to  topple  over  upon  them ;  but  it  did 
not.  To  the  eye  it  was  as  fixed  as  the  rocks ;  appar- 
ently one  could  have  leaned  his  back  against  the  ice 
with  his  feet  upon  the  foliage.  The  channel  of  Port 
Wells  w^as  so  blocked  with  ice  from  the  incessant 
discharges  of  the  glaciers  that  the  ship  made  her 
way  with  great  difficulty,  and  was  finally  compelled 
to  anchor  more  than  twenty  miles  from  the  head. 
In  the  launches  we  managed  to  get  about  ten  miles 
nearer.  This  was  the  most  active  glacier  we  had 
seen.  The  thundering  of  the  great  ice  Niagara  there 
in  the  distance  was  in  our  ears  every  moment,  but 
we  could  not  get  near  it;  it  beat  us  off  with  its  ice 
avalanches.  Such  piles  of  gravel  and  broken  rocks 
as  I  climbed  and  tried  to  cross  that  day  at  the  foot 
of  one  of  the  lesser  side  glaciers  dwarfed  anything 
I  had  yet  seen.  They  suggested  the  crush  of  moun- 
tains and  the  wreck  of  continents. 

Two  things  constantly  baffle  and  mislead  the  eye 
in  all  these  Alaskan  waters  —  size  and  distance. 
Things  are  on  a  new  scale.  The  standard  one  brings 
with  him  will  not  hold.  The  eye  says  it  is  three 
miles  to  such  a  point,  it  turns  out  to  be  six ;  or  that 
the  front  of  yonder  glacier  is  a  hundred  feet  high^ 
and  it  is  two  hundred  or  more.  For  my  part,  I 
never  succeeded  in  bringing  my  eye  up  to  the 
Alaskan  scale.  Many  a  point,  many  a  height,  which 
I  marked  for  my  own  from  the  deck  of  the  ship, 
seemed  to  recede  from  me  when  I  turned  my  steps 

74 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

toward  it.  The  wonderfully  clear  air  probably 
had  something  to  do  with  the  illusion.  Forms  were 
so  distinct  that  one  fancied  them  near  at  hand  when 
they  were  not. 

On  shore  we  found  gulls  and  Arctic  terns  nesting 
on  little  sandy  hillocks,  and  saw  oyster-catchers,  a 
ptarmigan,  and  the  wandering  tattler.  In  the  water 
the  marbled  murrelets  were  common  ;  with  their 
short  wings  and  plump,  round  bodies  they  looked 
like  sea  quail.  Our  first  and  only  mishap  to  the  ship 
in  these  waters  befell  us  here,  —  the  breaking  of  one 
of  the  blades  of  the  propeller  upon  a  cake  of  ice, 
an  accident  that  had  the  effect  of  making  our  craft 
limp  a  little. 

HARRIMAN   FIORD 

Later  in  the  afternoon  we  ascended  an  arm  of 
Port  Wells  more  to  the  westward  and  entered  upon 
a  voyage  of  discovery.  We  steamed  up  to  a  glacier 
of  prodigious  size  that  reared  its  front  across  the 
head  of  the  inlet  and  barred  further  progress  in  that 
direction, — the  Barry  Glacier.  According  to  the 
U.  S.  Coast  Survey  map  we  v/ere  at  the  end  of  navi- 
gation in  these  waters,  but  Mr.  Harriman  suggested 
to  the  captain  that  he  take  the  ship  a  little  nearer  the 
glacier,  when  a  way  seemed  open  to  the  left.  As  we 
progressed,  the  mountains  fell  apart  and  a  passage 
opened  there  around  the  corner,  like  a  street  coming 
in  at  right  angles  to  a  main  thoroughfare. 

75 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

The  captain   naturally  hesitated    to  enter  it;    it 
was  unmapped  and  unsounded  water. 

"  Go  ahead,  Captain,"  said    Mr.  Harriman,  "  I 
will  take  the  risk." 

We  went  on  under  a  ojood  head  of  steam  up 
this  new  inlet,  where  no  ship  had  ever  before  passed. 
It  was  one  of  the  most  exciting  moments  of  our  voy- 
age. We  could  see  another  huge  glacier  about  ten 
miles  ahead  of  us,  with  its  front  on  the  water  barrincr 
the  way.  Glaciers  hung  on  the  steep  mountain-sides 
all  about  us.  Some  of  them,  as  Mr.  Elliot  said, 
looked  like  the  stretched  skin3  of  huge  polar  bears. 
The  scene  was  wild  and  rugged  in  the  extreme.  One 
of  the  glaciers  was  self-named  the  Serpentine  by 
reason  of  its  winding  course  down  from  its  hidden 
sources  in  the  mountains,  —  a  great  white  serpent 
with  its  jaws  set  with  glittering  fangs  at  the  sea.  An- 
other was  self-named  the  Stairway,  as  it  came  down 
in  regular  terraces  or  benches.  A  Colossus  of  Rhodes 
with  seven-league  boots  would  have  been  an  appro- 
priate figure  upon  it.  As  we  neared  the  front  of  this 
last  glacier,  the  mountains  to  the  left  again  parted 
and  opened  up  another  new  arm  of  the  sea,  with 
more  glaciers  tumbling  in  mute  sublimity  from  the 
heights,  or  rearing  colossal  palisades  across  our 
front.  A  ten-mile  course  brought  us  to  the  head 
of  this  inlet,  which  was  indeed  the  end  of  naviga- 
tion in  this  direction.  Here  we  left  Gannett  and 
Muir  to  survey  and  bring  to  map  our  new  bit  of 

76 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

geography.  Subsequently  this  inlet  was  fitly  named 
Harriman  Fiord,  and  the  glacier  at  the  head  of  it, 
Harriman  Glacier. 

In  no  very  distant  past,  the  various  ice  sheets, 
united  in  one  body,  had  filled  the  inlet  to  the  moun- 
tain's brim  —  a  vast  ice  monster.  Now,  the  body 
of  the  monster  is  gone  and  his  limbs  lie  upon  the 
mountains  on  either  side,  while  his  tail  and  rump 
are  at  the  head  of  the  main  valley. 

Our  vessel,  on  coming  out  of  the  inlet  and  turn- 
ing almost  at  right  angles  into  Port  Wells,  was 
caught  by  the  very  strong  ebb  tide,  which  for  a  mo- 
ment held  her  in  its  grasp.  She  hesitated  to  respond 
to  her  helm,  and  was  making  direct  for  the  face 
of  the  great  glacier  on  our  port  side ;  but  presently 
she  came  about,  as  if  aware  of  her  danger,  and  went 
on  her  way  in  less  agitated  waters. 

This  great  glacier,  —  the  Barry, — which  guards 
the  entrance  to  Harriman  Inlet,  presented  some 
novel  features;  among  others,  huge  archways  above 
the  water-line,  suggesting  entrances  to  some  walled 
city.  When  masses  of  ice  fell,  I  fancied  I  could  hear 
the  reverberation  in  these  arched  caverns. 

The  next  day,  which  was  thick  and  rainy,  we 
picked  up  our  party  at  Virgin  Bay,  and  steamed 
back  to  Orca  to  mend  our  broken  propeller.  I  won- 
dered how  it  could  be  done,  as  there  is  no  dry  dock 
there,  but  the  problem  proved  an  easy  one.  The  tide 
is  so  great  in  these  waters  that  every  shelving  beach 

77 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

becomes  a  dry  dock  at  low  tide.  In  the  morning  our 
steamer  lay  in  shallow  water  on  the  beach  at  Orca. 
A  low  scaffolding  was  built  around  her  propeller, 
and  very  soon  the  broken  blade  was  replaced  by  a 
new  one.  While  this  was  being  done,  many  of  us 
viewed  the  process  of  salmon  canning.  Some  of  the 
fish  lay  piled  up  on  the  dock,  and  were  being  loaded 
into  wheelbarrows  with  a  one-tined  pitchfork  and 
wheeled  in  to  the  cleaners.  Most  of  the  work  was 
done  by  Chinamen  from  San  Francisco.  It  was  posi- 
tively fascinating  to  see  the  skill  and  swiftness  w  ith 
w^hich  some  of  these  men  worked  ;  only  two  used 
knives,  —  long,  thin  blades,  which  they  kept  very 
sharp.  They  cut  off  the  fins,  severed  the  head  and 
tail,  and  did  the  disemboweling  with  lightning-like 
rapidity.  It  was  like  the  tricks  of  jugglers.  There 
was  a  gleam  of  steel  about  the  fish  half  a  moment 
and  the  work  was  done.  One  had  to  be  very  intent 
to  follow  the  movements.  The  fish  were  then  washed 
and  scraped  and  passed  on  to  workmen  inside, 
where  they  were  cut  and  packed  by  machinery. 
Every  second  all  day  long  a  pound  can,  snugly 
packed,  drops  from  the  ingenious  mechanism.  For 
some  reason  the  looker-on  soon  loses  his  taste  for 
salmon,  there  is  such  a  world  of  it.  It  is  as  com- 
mon as  chips;  it  is  kicked  about  under  foot;  it  lies 
in  great  sweltering  heaps;  many  of  the  fish,  while 
lying  upon  the  beach  before  they  are  brought  in,  are 
pecked  and  bruised  by  gulls  and  ravens  ;  the  air  is 

78 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

redolent  of  an  odor  far  different  from  that  of  roses 
or  new-mown  hay,  and  very  shortly  one  turns  away 
to  the  woods  or  to  the  unpolluted  beach. 

The  first  tide  was  not  high  enough  to  lift  our 
steamer,  so  we  passed  another  day  at  Orca,  and  all 
hands  went  in  the  naphtha  launches  on  a  picnic  to  a 
wild  place  eight  or  ten  miles  distant  with  the  sugges- 
tive name  of  Bomb  Point.  It  was  a  lovely  secluded 
spot,  a  crescent-shaped  beach  half  a  mile  long  at  the 
head  ®f  a  shallow  bay,  flanked  by  low,  wooded  points 
and  looked  down  upon  by  lofty  mountains.  Here  we 
were  quickly  roaming  over  one  of  those  large  natural 
clearings  or  hyperborean  meadows  that  we  had  so 
often  seen  from  the  ship,  and  that  had  looked  so 
friendly  and  enticing.  This  one,  on  a  nearer  view, 
proved  especially  alluring  and  delightful ;  a  strange 
air  of  privacy  and  seclusion  was  over  it  all.  It  was 
not  merely  carpeted  to  the  foot,  it  was  cushioned. 
Walking  over  it  was  like  walking  over  a  feather-bed, 
—  moss  and  grass  a  foot  deep  or  more  upon  a  foun- 
dation of  soft  peat.  Wild  flowers  —  yellow,  white, 
pink,  purple  —  were  everywhere. 

Little  pools  or  basins  of  brown  water,  their  brims 
neatly  faced  and  rounded  with  moss  and  grass,  were 
sunk  here  and  there  into  the  surface.  Stunted  mossy 
hemlocks  and  spruces  dotted  the  landscape,  and  the 
near-by  woods  threw  out  irregular  lines  of  gray, 
moss-draped  trees,  —  novel,  interesting.  Such  a  look 
of  age,  and  yet  the  bloom  and  dimples  of  youth! 

79 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

Bearded,  decrepit,  dwarfed  spruces  above  a  turf 
like  a  pillow  decked  with  flowers!  I  walked  alon^j^  a 
margin  of  open  Vvoods  that  had  a  singularly  genial, 
sheltered,  home  look,  and  listened  to  the  hermit 
tlirush.  The  nearer  we  get  to  the  region  of  perpet- 
ual snow,  the  more  does  vegetable  life  seem  to  simu- 
late snow  and  cover  the  ground  with  softness,  — soft- 
ness to  the  foot,  and  dimpled  surface  to  the  eye. 
Such  handfuls  of  wild  flowers  as  we  all  gathered! 
The  thought  in  every  one's  mind  w^as.  Oh,  if  we 
could  only  place  these  flowers  in  the  hands  of  friends 
at  home!   The  colors  were  all  deep  and  intense. 

In  the  afternoon  the  steamer  picked  us  up.  A 
little  after  midnight  we  took  aboard  the  party  we 
had  left  at  Columbia  Glacier,  and  then  returned  to 
Ilarriman  Fiord  for  Gannett  and  Muir.  When  they 
were  on  board,  w^e  once  more  turned  our  faces  to  the 
open  sea,  bound  for  Cook  Inlet,  the  largest  of  the 
Alaskan  bays.  It  penetrates  the  land  one  hundred 
and  fifty  miles,  and  is  more  than  fifty  miles  broad  at 
its  mouth. 

We  entered  it  on  the  80th,  under  bright  skies,  and 
dropped  anchor  behind  a  low  sandspit  in  Kachemac 
Bay,  on  the  end  of  which  is  a  group  of  four  or  five 
buildings  making  up  tlie  hamlet  of  Homer.  There 
was  nothing  Homeric  in  the  look  of  the  place,  but 
grandeur  looked  down  upon  it  from  the  mountains 
around,  especially  from  the  great  volcanic  peaks, 
Iliamna  and  Redoubt,  sixty  miles  across  the  inlet  to 

80 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

the  west.  The  former  rises  over  twelve  thousand  feet 
from  the  sea  and,  bathed  in  sunshine,  was  an  impres- 
sive spectacle.  It  was  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  snow, 
but  it  evidently  was  warm  at  heart,  for  we  could  see 
steam  issuing  from  two  points  near  its  summit. 

Our  stay  in  Cook  Inlet  was  brief.  Our  hunters  had 
hoped  to  kill  some  big  game  here,  but  after  inter- 
viewing an  experienced  hunter  who  had  a  camp  on 
shore,  they  concluded  that  on  our  return  in  July  the 
prospects  would  be  better.  On  the  afternoon  of  June 
30,  therefore,  we  left  the  inlet  and  were  off  for  the 
island  of  Kadiak,  a  hundred  miles  to  the  southwest. 

KADIAK 

We  were  now  about  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  or 
indeed  to  open  a  new  book,  and  to  enter  upon  an 
entirely  different  type  of  scenery,  —  the  treeless  type. 
Up  to  this  point,  or  for  nearly  two  thousand  miles, 
we  had  seen  the  mountains  and  vallevs  covered  with 

ft/ 

unbroken  spruce  forests.  Now  we  were  to  have  two 
thousand  miles  without  a  tree,  the  valleys  and  moun- 
tains green  as  a  lawn,  and  to  the  eye  as  smooth,  — 
all  of  volcanic  origin ;  many  of  the  cones  ideally  per- 
fect; the  valleys  deepened  and  carved  by  the  old  gla- 
ciers, and  heights  and  lowlands  alike  covered  with  a 
carpet  of  grass,  ferns,  and  iflowers. 

The  forests  begin  to  fail  at  the  mouth  of  Cook 
Inlet.  As  we  came  out,  my  eye  was  drawn  to  rolling 
heights,  where  were  groups  and  lines  of  trees  amid 

81 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

broad,  green  expanses.  The  suggestion  of  hill  farms 
at  home  with  orchards  and  groves,  and  trees  along 
the  fences,  was  very  strong,  but  one  looked  in  vain 
for  the  houses  and  barns  of  the  farmers.  We  were 
going  into  a  milder  climate,  too.  During  nearly  all 
the  month  of  June,  despite  my  extra  winter  clothing, 
I  had  suffered  with  cold.  In  Prince  William  Sound 
and  in  Yakutat  Bay  we  were  in  vast  refrigerating 
chests.  The  air  had  all  been  on  ice,  and  the  sunshine 
seemed  only  to  make  us  feel  its  tooth  the  more 
keenly.  With  benumbed  fingers  I  wrote  to  a  friend 
in  this  strain:  "Amid  vour  summer  weather,  do 
remember  us  in  our  wanderings,  a-chill  on  these 
northern  seas,  beleaguered  by  icebergs,  frowned  upon 
by  glaciers,  and  held  as  by  some  enchantment  in  a 
vast  circle  of  snow-capped  mountain  peaks.  Are 
your  hands  and  feet  really  warm  ?  Is  it  true  that 
there  is  no  snow  upon  the  mountains  ?  " 

But  balmier  skies  awaited  us;  the  warmer  cur- 
rents of  the  Pacific  flowing  up  from  Japan  and  the 
southern  seas  were  soon  to  breathe  upon  us;  that 
pastoral  paradise,  Kadiak,  was  soon  to  greet  us. 

All  the  afternoon  we  steamed  along  the  coast  in 
smooth  seas,  in  full  view  of  lofty,  snow-covered  moun- 
tains with  huge  glaciers  issuing  from  out  their  loins. 
Late  at  night,  off  against  Kukak  Bay,  we  put  off  a 
party  of  five  or  six  men  who  wished  to  spend  a  week 
collecting  and  botanizing  on  the  mainland.  It  looked 
like  a  perilous  piece  of  business,  the  debarkation  of 

82 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

these  men  in  the  darkness,  in  an  open  boat  on  an  un- 
known coast  many  miles  from  shore.  Might  they  not 
miss  the  bay  ?  Might  they  not  find  the  surf  running 
too  high  to  land,  or  might  not  some  other  mishap 
befall  them  ?  But  after  a  hard  pull  of  several  hours, 
they  made  the  shore  at  a  suitable  landing-place,  and 
their  days  spent  there  were  in  every  way  satisfactory. 
On  the  morning  of  July  1,  we  woke  up  in  Uyak 
Ba.y  on  the  north  side  of  the  Island  of  Kadiak.  The 
sky  was  clear  and  the  prospect  most  inviting. 
Smooth,  treeless,  green  hills  and  mountains  sur- 
rounded us,  pleasing  to  the  eye  and  alluring  to  the 
feet.  Two  large  salmon  canneries  were  visible  on 
shore,  and  presently  a  boat  came  off  to  us  with  fresh 
salmon.  Here  we  left  a  naphtha  launch  with  a  party 
of  six  men,  heavily  armed,  bent  on  finding  and  kill- 
ing the  great  Kadiak  bear,  the  largest  species  of 
bear  in  the  world,  as  big  as  an  ox.  They  had  been 
making  up  their  mouths  for  this  monster  bear  all  the 
way,  and  now  they  were  at  last  close  to  his  haunts. 
In  two  or  three  days  we  were  to  return  and  pick 
them  up  and  hoist  their  game  aboard  with  the  great 
derrick.  In  the  delicious  sunshine  we  steamed  out  of 
Uyak,  bound  for  Kadiak  village  on  the  east  end  of 
the  island,  one  hundred  miles  away.  Kadiak  Island 
Hes  nearly  south  from  Cook  Inlet,  about  fifty  miles 
from  the  mainland.  It  is  one  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  long  and  one  third  as  broad.  It  would  just 
about  fill  up  Cook  Inlet,  out  of  which  it  may  have 

83 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

slipped  some  time  for  aught  I  know.  It  is  treeless 
except  upon  the  east  end,  which  faces  toward  the 
great  Alaskan  forests,  from  which  the  tree  infection 
may  have  come. 

How  beautiful  and  interesting  the  shores  we 
passed  that  day  !  Smooth,  rounded  hills,  as  green 
and  tender  to  the  eye  as  well-kept  lawns,  recalling 
the  hills  we  saw  in  May  upon  Snake  River  ;  natural 
sheep  ranges,  such  as  one  sees  in  the  north  of  Eng- 
land, but  not  a  sign  of  life  upon  them. 

I  warn  my  reader  here,  that  henceforth  I  shall 
babble  continually  of  green  fields.  There  was  no 
end  to  them.  We  had  come  from  an  arboreal  wilder- 
ness to  a  grassy  wilderness,  from  a  world  of  spruce 
forests  to  a  world  of  emerald  heights  and  verdant 
slopes.  Look  at  the  map  of  x4.1aska,  and  think  of  all 
the  peninsulas  from  Cook  Inlet  and  all  the  adjacent 
islands,  and  the  long  chain  of  the  Aleutians  sweep- 
ing nearly  across  to  Asia,  as  being  covered  with  an 
unbroken  carpet  of  verdure,  —  it  must  needs  be  the 
main  feature  in  my  descriptions.  Never  had  I  seen 
such  beauty  of  greenness,  because  never  before  had 
I  seen  it  from  such  a  vantage-ground  of  blue  sea. 

We  had  not  been  many  hours  out  of  Uyak  that 
afternoon  when  we  began  to  see  a  few  scattered 
spruce-trees,  then  patches  of  forest  in  the  valley  bot- 
toms. At  one  point  we  passed  near  a  large  natural 
park.  It  looked  as  if  a  landscape  gardener  might  have 
been  employed  to  grade  and  shape  the  ground,  and 

84 


IN    CxREEN    ALASKA 

plant  it  with  grass  and  trees  in  just  the  right  propor« 
tion.  Here  were  cattle,  too,  and  liow  good  they  looked, 
grazing  or  reposing  on  those  long,  smooth  vistas  be- 
tween the  trees!  To  eyes  sated  with  the  wild,  aus- 
tere grandeur  of  Prince  William  Sound  the  change 
was  most  delightful.  Our  course  lay  through  narrow 
channels  and  over  open  bays  sprinkled  with  green 
islands,  past  bold  cliffs  and  headlands,  till  at  three 
o'clock  we  entered  the  narrow  strait,  no  more  than 
twice  the  ship's  length  in  width,  upon  which  is  situ- 
ated the  village  of  Kadiak,  called  by  the  Russians 
St.  Paul.  We  could  see  the  wild  flowers  upon  the 
shore  as  we  passed  along,  barn  swallows  twittered 
by,  a  magpie  crossed  the  strait  from  one  green  bank 
to  the  other,  and  as  we  touched  the  wharf  a  song 
sparrow  was  singing  from  the  weather-vane  of  a 
large  warehouse,  —  a  song  sparrow  in  voice,  man- 
ners, and  color,  but  in  form  twice  as  large  as  our 
home  bird.  The  type  of  song  sparrow  changes  all 
the  way  from  Yakutat  Bay  to  the  Aleutian  Islands, 
till  at  the  latter  place  it  is  nearly  as  large  as  the  cat- 
bird; but  the  song  and  general  habits  of  the  bird 
change  but  very  little.  How  welcome  the  warmth, 
too !  We  had  stepped  from  April  into  June,  vrith  the 
mercury  near  the  seventies,  and  our  spirits  rose 
accordingly.  How  we  swarmed  out  of  the  ship,  like 
boys  out  of  school,  longing  for  a  taste  of  grass  and  of 
the  rural  seclusion  and  sweetness !  That  great  green 
orb  or  half  orb  of  a  mountain  that  shone  down  upon 

85 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

us  from  just  back  of  the  town,  the  highest  point  in 
its  rim  at  an  altitude  of  twenty-three  hundred  feet, 
• —  how  our  legs  tingled  to  climb  it !  and  the  green 
vale  below,  where  the  birds  were  singing  and  many 
rare  wild  flowers  blooming;  and  the  broad,  gentle 
height  to  the  north,  threaded  by  a  grassy  lane,  where 
groves  of  low,  fragrant  spruces  promised  a  taste 
of  the  blended  sylvan  and  pastoral ;  or  the  smooth, 
rounded  island  opposite,  over  which  the  sea  threw 
blue  glances;  or  the  curving  line  of  water  sweeping 
away  to  the  south  toward  a  rugged  mountain- 
wall,  streaked  with  snow;  or  the  peaceful,  quaint 
old  village  itself,  strung  upon  paths  and  grassy  lanes, 
with  its  chickens  and  geese  and  children,  and  two  or 
three  cows  cropping  the  grass  or  ruminating  by  the 
wayside,  —  surely,  here  was  a  tempting  field  to  ship- 
bound  voyagers  from  the  chilly  and  savage  north. 
The  town  itself  had  a  population  of  seven  or  eight 
hundred  people,  Indians,  half-breeds,  and  Russians, 
with  a  sprinkling  of  Americans,  living  in  comfort- 
able frame  cottages,  generally  with  a  bit  of  garden 
attached.  The  people  fish,  hunt  the  sea-otter,  and 
work  for  the  Alaska  Commercial  Company.  We 
met  here  an  old  Vermonter,  a  refined,  scholarly 
looking  man,  with  a  patriarchal  beard,  who  had 
married  a  native  woman  and  had  a  family  of  young 
children  growing  up  around  him.  He  Hked  the  cli- 
mate better  than  that  of  New  England.  The  winters 
were  not  very  cold,  never  below  zero,  and  the  sum- 

86 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

mers  were  not  hot,  rarely  up  to  80°  Fahrenheit. 
There  were  no  horses  or  wheeled  vehicles  in  town, 
and  the  streets  were  grassy  lanes.  Such  a  rural. 
Arcadian  air  I  had  never  }:)efore  seen  pervading  a 
town  upon  American  soil.  There  is  a  Greek  church 
near  the  wharf,  and  its  chime  of  bells  was  in  our 
ears  for  hours  at  a  time.  The  only  incongruous 
thing  I  saw  was  a  building  with  a  big  sign  on  its 
ridge-board:  "  Chicago  Store."  I  went  in  and  asked 
for  some  fresh  eggs;  they  had  none,  but  directed 
me  to  a  cottage  near  the  beach. 

I  found  here  a  large  Russian  woman,  who  had  the 
eggs,  for  which,  after  consulting  with  a  younger 
woman,  she  wanted  "  four  bits."  The  potatoes  in 
her  garden  had  tops  a  foot  high,  but  her  currant- 
bushes  were  just  in  bloom.  Our  stay  of  five  days  in 
this  charming  place  was  a  dream  of  rural  beauty  and 
repose:  warm  summer  skies  above  us,  green,  flower- 
strewn  hills  and  slopes  around  us,  —  our  paths  were 
indeed  in  green  pastures  and  beside  still  waters. 
One  enticing  trail  left  the  old  Russian  road  half  a 
mile  north  of  the  village,  and  led  off  northwest  across 
little  mossy  and  flowery  glens,  through  spruce 
groves,  over  little  runs,  up  a  shoulder  of  the  moun- 
tain, and  then  down  a  few  miles  into  a  broad, 
green,  silent  valley  that  held  a  fine  trout  brook. 
The  path  was  probably  made  by  the  village  anglers. 
In  looking  into  such  a  peaceful,  verdant  sweep  of 
country,  one  almost   instinctively  looked  for  farm- 

87 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

houses,  or  for  flocks  and  herds  and  other  signs  of 
human  occupancy;  but  they  were  not  there.  One 
high  mountain  that  cut  into  the  valley  at  right  angles 
had  a  long,  easy  ridge,  apparently  as  sharp  as  the 
ridge-board  of  a  building.  I  marked  it  for  my  own 
and  thought  to  set  my  feet  upon  it,  but  the  way  was 
too  beguiling,  and  I  did  not  get  there.  The  moun- 
tain looked  as  though  it  had  just  had  a  priming- 
coat  of  delicate  green  paint. 

But  the  mighty  emerald  billow  that  rose  from  the 
rear  of  the  village,  —  we  all  climbed  that,  some  of  us 
repeatedly.  From  the  ship  it  looked  as  smooth  as  a 
meadow,  but  the  climber  soon  found  himself  knee 
deep  in  ferns,  grasses,  and  a  score  of  flowering 
plants,  and  now  and  then  was  forced  to  push  through 
a  patch  of  alders  as  high  as  his  head.  He  could  not 
go  far  before  his  hands  would  be  full  of  flowers,  blue 
predominating.  The  wild  geranium  here  is  light 
blue,  and  tinges  the  slopes  as  daisies  and  buttercups 
do  at  home.  Near  the  summit  w^ere  patches  of  a  most 
exquisite  forget-me-not  of  a  pure,  delicate  blue  with 
yellow  centre.  It  grew  to  the  height  of  a  foot,  and  a 
handful  of  it  looked  like  something  just  caught  out 
of  the  sky  above.  Here,  too,  was  a  small,  delicate 
lady's-slipper,  pale  yellow  striped  with  maroon  ; 
also  a  dwarf  rhododendron,  its  large  purple  flowers 
sitting  upon  the  moss  and  lichen.  The  climber 
also  waded  through  patches  of  lupine,  and  put  his 
feet  upon  bluebells,  Jacob's  ladder,  iris,  saxifrage, 

88 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

cassiope,  and  many  others.  The  song-birds  that 
attracted  our  notice  were  the  golden-crowned  spar^ 
row  and  the  Httle  hermit  thrush.  The  goklen-crown 
has  a  strangely  piercing,  plaintive  song,  very  simple, 
but  very  appealing.  It  consists  of  only  three  notes, 
but  they  come  from  out  the  depths  of  the  bird's  soul. 
In  them  is  all  the  burden  of  the  mystery  and  the 
pathos  of  life. 

In  the  spruce  groves  to  the  north  opened  up  by 
the  old  grassy  road,  besides  the  birds  named,  one 
heard  the  pine  grosbeak,  the  gray-cheeked  thrush, 
and  the  weird  strain  of  the  Oregon  robin.  This  last 
bird  was  very  shy  and  hard  to  get  a  view  of.  I  reclined 
for  two  hours  one  day  upon  the  deep  dry  moss  under 
the  spruces,  waiting  for  the  singer  to  reveal  himself. 
When  seen  he  looks  like  our  robin  in  a  holiday  suit. 
His  song  is  a  long,  tapering  note  or  whistle,  at  times 
with  a  peculiar  tolling  effect. 

TO  THE  OREGON  ROBIN    IN  ALASKA 

0  Varied  Thrush !    O  Robin  strange! 
Behold  my  mute  surprise. 

Thy  form  and  flight  I  long  have  known. 
But  not  this  new  disguise. 

1  do  not  know  thy  slaty  coat, 

Nor  vest  with  darker  zone  ; 
I  'm  puzzled  by  thy  recluse  ways 
And  song  in  monotone. 
89 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

I  left  thee  *mid  my  orchard's  bloom, 
WTien  May  had  crowned  the  year  ; 

Thy  nest  was  on  the  apple  bough, 
Where  rose  thy  carol  clear. 

Thou  lurest  now  through  fragrant  shades. 

Where  hoary  spruces  grow  ; 
W^here  floor  of  moss  infolds  the  foot. 

Like  depths  of  fallen  snow. 

Loquacious  ravens  clack  and  croak 

Nor  hold  me  in  my  quest  ; 
The  purple  grosbeaks  perch  and  sing 

Upon  the  cedar's  crest. 

But  thou  art  doomed  to  shun  the  day, 

A  captive  of  the  shade  ; 
I  only  catch  thy  stealthy  flight 

Athwart  the  forest  glade. 

Thy  voice  is  like  a  hermit's  reed 

That  solitude  beguiles  ; 
Again  't  is  like  a  silver  bell 

Adrift  in  forest  aisles. 

Throw  off,  throw  off  this  masquerade 

And  don  thy  ruddy  vest. 
And  let  me  find  thee,  as  of  old, 

Beside  thy  orchard  nest. 

While  here  Mr.  Harriman  had  the  luck  to  kill  the 
long-expected  Kadiak  bear;   he  shot  a  mother  and 

90 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

cub.  He  and  his  guide,  an  old  Russian  named 
Stepan  Kondakoff,  found  her  grazing  near  the 
snow-hne  on  the  mountain-side  about  ten  miles 
to  the  south.  She  was  eating  grass  like  a  cow,  Mr. 
Harriman  said.  She  was  a  large  animal,  but  below 
the  size  of  the  traditional  Kadiak  bear.  Her  color 
was  a  faded  brown.  A  much  larger  one  was  seen 
far  across  a  difficult  valley. 

On  July  3,  which  was  bright  and  warm,  a  num- 
ber of  us  visited  Wood  Island,  a  few  miles  to  the 
east,  where  the  North  American  Commercial  Com- 
pany has  its  headquarters,  and  where  are  large  old 
spruce  woods  and  lakes  of  fresh  water.  Charles 
Keeler  and  I  heard,  or  fancied  we  heard,  voices 
calling  us  from  out  the  depths  of  the  w  oods ;  so  we 
left  the  party  and  took  ourselves  thither,  and  lounged 
for  hours  in  the  mossy,  fragrant  solitudes,  eating  our 
lunch  by  a  little  rill  of  cold  water,  listening  to  the 
song-birds  and  ravens,  and  noting  the  wood  flowers 
and  moss-draped  trees.  Here  we  heard  the  winter 
wTcn  at  our  leisure,  a  bubbling,  trilling,  prolonged 
strain  like  that  of  our  eastern  bird,  but  falling  far 
short  of  it  in  melody  and  in  wild  lyrical  penetra- 
tion. In  other  words,  it  was  the  same  song  sung  by 
a  far  inferior  voice.  The  elusive  note  of  the  Ore- 
gon robin,  as  though  the  dark,  motionless  spruces 
had  found  a  voice,  was  also  heard  here  and  there. 
These  woods  were  not  merely  carpeted  with  moss, 
they  were   upholstered  ;  the  ground  was    padded 

91 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

aiiklo-deep,  and  under  every  tree  was  a  couch  of  the 
most  luxurious  kind. 

The  4th  of  July  found  us,  as  it  usually  finds 
Americans,  wherever  they  are,  overflowing  with 
patriotism,  bunting,  and  gunpowder  hilarity.  Our 
huge  graphophone  played  very  well  the  part  of  a 
brass  band;  Professor  Brewer,  upon  the  hurricane 
deck,  discharged  admirably  the  duties  of  the  orator 
of  the  day;  he  was  followed  by  Mr.  Kceler,  who 
shaded  the  picture  the  speaker  had  drawn  by  a  stir- 
ring poem,  touching  upon  some  of  the  nation's  short- 
comings ;  songs  and  music,  followed  by  a  boat  race 
and  general  merriment,  finished  the  programme. 

Kadiak,  T  think,  won  a  place  in  the  hearts  of  all  of 
us.  Our  spirits  probably  touched  the  highest  point 
here.  If  we  had  other  days  that  were  epic,  these  days 
were  lyric.  To  me  they  were  certainly  more  exqui- 
site and  thrilling  than  any  before  or  after.  I  feel  as 
if  I  wanted  to  go  back  to  Kadiak,  almost  as  if  I 
could  return  there  to  live,  —  so  secluded,  so  remote, 
so  peaceful;  such  a  mingling  of  the  domestic,  the 
pastoral,  the  sylvan,  w^ith  the  wild  and  the  rugged; 
such  emerald  heights,  such  flowery  vales,  such  blue 
arms  and  recesses  of  the  sea,  and  such  a  vast  green 
solitude  stretching  away  to  the  west  and  to  the 
north  and  to  the  south.  Bewitching  Kadiak!  the 
spell  of  thy  summer  freshness  and  placidity  is  still 
upon  me. 

On  the  5th,  still  under  clear,  warm  skies,  we  left  this 

92 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

rural  paradise  and  steamed  away  to  Kukak  Bay  on 
the  mainland,  to  pick  up  the  party  we  had  left  there 
on  the  night  of  June  30.  It  was  a  relief  to  find  they 
had  had  no  misadventure  and  were  well  pleased 
with  their  expedition.  They  described  one  view  that 
made  the  listener  wish  he  had  been  with  them :  thev 
had  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  long  green  slope  behind 
their  camp,  and  had  suddenly  found  themselves  on 
the  brink  of  an  almost  perpendicular  mountain-wall. 
Through  a  deep  notch  in  this  wall  they  had  looked 
down  two  thousand  feet  into  a  valley  beneath  them 
invaded  by  a  great  glacier  that  swept  down  from  the 
snow-white  peaks  beyond.  The  spectacle  was  so 
unexpected  and  so  tremendous  that  it  fairly  took 
their  breaths  away.  From  the  deck  of  the  ship  the 
slope  up  which  their  course  lay  looked  like  a  piece  of 
stretched  green  baize  cloth. 

An  event  of  this  day's  cruising  which  I  must 
not  forget  was  the  strange  effects  wrought  for  us 
by  that  magician  Mirage  :  islands  and  headlands  in 
the  air,  long,  low  capes  doubled,  one  above  anotlier, 
with  a  lucid  space  between  them  ;  a  level  snowy 
range  standing  up  slightly  above  a  nearer  rocky 
one,  drawn  out  and  manipulated  till  it  suggested  a 
vast  Grecian  temple  crowning  a  rocky  escarpment,  — 
fantasy,  illusion,  enchantment,  —  trick  played  with 
sea  and  shore  on  every  hand  that  afternoon. 

From  this  point  we  turned  to  the  island  again,  and 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  gathered  in  the  bear  huiit- 

93 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

ers  we  had  left  at  Uyak  Bay.  They  were  bearless,  but 
they  had  the  comfort  of  having  seen  many  signs  of 
bears,  of  having  had  many  enjoyable  tramps  over 
hill  and  across  dale  in  a  green,  treeless  country,  of 
having  found  a  superb  waterfall,  and  of  having  sur« 
vived  the  hordes  of  mosquitoes. 

We  steamed  all  day  southwestward  along  the 
Alaska  Peninsula,  under  clear  skies  and  over  smooth 
waters,  past  the  Semides  and  on  to  the  Shuma- 
gin  Islands,  where  we  dropped  anchor  about  mid- 
night. 

When  we  put  our  heads  out  of  our  windows  on 
the  morning  of  the  7th,  we  were  at  anchor  off  Sand 
Point,  in  a  bay  in  Popof  Island,  one  of  the  Shumagin 
group,  about  halfway  down  the  Alaska  Peninsula. 
On  the  one  hand  we  saw  a  low,  green,  treeless  slope, 
almost  within  a  stone's  throw,  from  which  came 
many  musical  bird  voices.  The  lesser  hermit 
thrush,  the  golden-crowned  sparrow,  the  fox  spar- 
row, the  large  song  sparrow,  the  yellow  warbler,  the 
rosy  finch,  all  were  distinguishable  from  the  ship's 
deck.  It  is  a  novel  experience  to  wake  up  in  the 
morning  on  an  ocean  steamer  and  hear  bird-songs 
through  one's  open  window,  but  this  was  often  our 
experience  on  this  trip.  On  this  grassy  hill  are 
some  curious  volcanic  Avarts  or  excrescences  that 
give  a  strange  effect  to  the  scene.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  blue  waters  of  the  harbor  stretch  away  to  low, 
alder-clad  shores,  from  which  rise  a  range  of  bare 

94 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

<rolcanic  mountains,  among  them  one  perfect  cone, 
probably  three  thousand  feet  high. 

In  the  Shumagins  three  men  elected  to  leave  the 
ship  to  dredge  the  sea  and  study  the  volcanic  forma- 
tion of  the  land.  We  promised  to  pick  them  up  on. 
our  return  ten  days  hence.  At  ten  o'clock  our  anchor 
was  up  and  we  were  off  for  Unalaska.  The  event  of 
this  day  was  the  view  we  had  of  the  twin  volcanic 
peaks  of  Pavlof,  rising  from  the  shore  to  an  altitude 
of  seven  or  eight  thousand  feet.  One  of  them  was 
a  symmetrical  cone,  with  black  converging  lines  of 
rock  cutting  through  the  snow  hke  the  ribs  of  an 
umbrella;  the  other  was  more  rugged  and  irregu- 
lar, with  many  rents  upon  its  sides  and  near  its  sum- 
mit, from  which  vapors  issued,  staining  the  snow 
like  smoke  from  a  chimney.  Sheets  of  vapor  were 
also  seen  issuing  from  cracks  at  its  foot  near  the  sea 
level.  We  were  specially  fortunate  in  viewing  these 
grand  mountains  under  such  favorable  weather 
conditions. 

On  this  day  also,  just  after  passing  Pavlof,  we 
were  for  hours  in  sight  of  the  Aghileen  Pinnacles, 
which  have  such  a  strange  architectural  effect  amid 
the  wilder  and  ruder  forms  that  surround  them,  as 
if  some  vast,  many-spired  cathedral  of  dark  gray 
stone  were  going  to  decay  there  in  the  mountain  soli- 
tude. Both  in  form  and  color  they  seemed  alien  to 
everything  about  them.  Now  we  saw  them  athwart 
the  crests  of  smooth  green  hills,  then  rising  behind 

95 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

naked,  rocky  ridges,  or  fretting  the  sky  above  lines 
of  snow.  Their  walls  arc  so  steep  that  no  snow  lies 
upon  them,  while  the  pinnacles  are  like  church 
spires. 

The  whole  of  the  Alaska  Peninsula,  all  the  islands 
off  it,  the  islands  in  Bering  Sea,  and  the  Aleutian 
group  are  of  volcanic  origin,  and  some  of  the  em- 
bers of  the  old  fires  are  still  alive  in  our  day,  as  we 
had  proof.  Since  our  visit  there  has  been  other  proof 
in  the  shape  of  a  severe  earthquake  shock  felt  all 
along  the  Alaskan  coast,  in  some  places  disastrously. 

Continuing  to  the  westward,  we  sailed  along  ver- 
dant shores  and  mountains  without  sign  of  human 
habitation  till  we  saw  a  cluster  of  buildings  called 
Belkofski,  —  two  or  three  dozen  brown  roofs  grouped 
around  a  large  white,  green-topped  building,  prob- 
ably a  Greek  church.  The  settlement  seemed  care- 
fully set  down  there  in  the  green  solitude  like  a  toy 
village  on  a  shelf.  The  turf  had  not  been  anywhere 
broken ;  not  a  mark  or  stain  upon  the  treeless  land- 
scape. Above  it  ran  a  smooth,  barren  mountain, 
which  swept  down  in  green  slopes  to  a  broad  emer- 
ald plain  upon  which  the  hamlet  sat.  Now  a  long 
headland  comes  down  to  the  water's  edge  with  its 
green  carpet;  then  again  it  is  cut  ofl'  sharply  by  the 
sea,  or  cut  in  twain,  showing  sheer  pyramidal  walls 
two  hundred  feet  high.  Then  a  succession  of  vast, 
smooth,  emerald  slopes  running  up  into  high,  gray, 
desolate  mountains,  pointed,  conical,  curved;  now 

96 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

presenting  a  mighty  bowl,  fluted  and  scalloped  and 
opening  on  one  side  through  a  sweep  of  valley  to  the 
sea,  then  a  creased  and  wrinkled  lawn  at  an  angle  of 
forty-five  degrees  and  miles  in  extent.  The  motion- 
less ice  sheets  we  had  seen  farther  north  flowing 
down  out  of  the  mountains  were  here  simulateil  by 
grassy  billows  flowing  down  out  of  the  hills.  Green, 
white,  and  blue  are  the  three  prevailing  tints  all  the 
way  from  Cook  Inlet  to  Unalaska  ;  blue  of  the  sea 
and  sky,  green  of  the  shores  and  lower  slopes,  and 
white  of  the  lofty  peaks  and  volcanic  cones,  —  they 
are  mingled  and  contrasted  all  the  way. 

Was  it  on  this  day  also  that  my  eye  dwelt  so  long 
and  so  fondly  upon  what  appeared  to  be  another 
architectural  ruin,  abutting  on  the  sea  and  bathed  in 
the  soft  light  of  the  late  afternoon  sun  ?  Was  it  some 
old  abbey,  or  was  it  some  unfinished  temple  to  the 
gods  of  the  mountain  ?  Two  spires,  one  at  either  end, 
stood  up  many  hundred  feet,  one  slender  and  taper- 
ing to  a  blunt  point,  with  the  suggestion  of  a  recess 
for  a  bell,  the  other  heavy  and  massive,  and  evidently 
only  a  stump  of  what  it  had  been ;  the  roof  vast  and 
sloping,  the  upper  story  with  its  windows  rudely 
outlined,  and  the  lower  merged  in  a  mass  of  gray, 
un carved  rock. 

Before  nightfall  we  passed  two  more  notable  vol- 
canic peaks,  Isanotski  and  Shishaldin,  both  of  which 
penetrate  the  clouds  at  an  altitude  of  nearly  nine 
thousand  feet.    These  are  on  Unimak  Island  at  tlip 

97 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

end  of  llic  peninsula.  Our  first  glimpse  was  of  a 
hlack  cone  ending  in  a  point  far  above  a  heavy  mass 
of  cloud.  It  seemed  buoyed  up  there  by  the  clouds. 
Tliere  was  nothing  visible  beneath  it  to  indicate  the 
presence  of  a  mountain.  Then  the  clouds  blotted  it 
out;  but  presently  the  veil  was  brushed  aside  again, 
and  before  Ions:  w^e  saw  both  mountains  from  base 
to  summit  and  noted  the  vast  concave  lines  of  Shi- 
shaldin  that  sweep  down  to  the  sea,  and  mark  the 
typical  volcanic  form. 

The  long,  graceful  curves,  so  attractive  to  the  eye, 
repeat  on  this  far-off  island  the  profile  of  Fuji-Yama, 
the  sacred  peak  of  Japan.  Those  of  our  party  v.dio 
had  seen  Shishaldin  in  previous  years  described  it  as 
snow  white  from  base  to  summit.  But  when  we  saw 
it,  the  upper  part,  for  several  thousand  feet,  was  dark, 
—  doubtless  the  result  of  heat,  for  it  is  smoking  tliis 
year. 

On  the  morning  of  the  8th  we  w^ere  tied  up  at  the 
pier  in  Dutch  Harbor,  Unalaska,  amid  a  world  of 
green  hills  and  meadow^s  like  those  at  Kadiak.  It 
was  warm  and  cloudy,  with  light  rain.  We  tarried 
here  half  a  day,  taking  in  coal  and  water,  visiting  the 
old  Russian  town  of  Iliuliuk  a  couple  of  miles  away 
at  the  head  of  another  indentation  in  the  harbor, 
strolling  through  the  wild  meadows,  or  climbing  the 
enaerald  heights. 

One  new  bird,  the  Lapland  longspur,  which  in 
color,  flight,  and  song  suggested  our  bobolink,  at- 

98 


IN    GPtEEN   ALASKA 

tracted  our  attention  here.  As  we  came  "  cross  lots  " 
over  the  flower-besprinkled,  undulatincr  plain  from 
the  old  town  to  the  new,  this  bird  was  in  song  all 
about  us,  hovering  in  the  air,  pouring  out  its  li(|uid, 
bubbling  song,  and  dropping  down  in  the  grass 
again  in  a  way  very  suggestive  of  the  home  bird,  — 
so  much  so  that  it  may  be  fitly  called  the  northland 
bobolink. 


TO  THE   LAPLAND   LONGSPUR 

Oh!   thou  northland  bobolink. 

Looking  over  summer's  brink, 
Up  to  winter,  worn  and  dim. 

Peering  down  from  mountain  rim, 
Peering  out  on  Bering  Sea, 

To  higher  lands  where  he  may  flee, — 
Something  takes  me  in  thy  note, 

Quivering  wing  and  bubbling  throat. 
Something  moves  me  in  thy  ways,  — 

Bird,  rejoicing  in  thy  days. 
In  thy  upward  hovering  flight. 

In  thy  suit  of  black  and  white, 
Chestnut  cape  and  circled  crown. 

In  thy  mate  of  speckled  brown  ; 
Surely  I  may  pause  and  think 

Of  my  boyhood's  bobolink. 

Soaring  over  meadows  wild,  — 
(Greener  pastures  never  smiled) 
99 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

Raining  music  from  above,  — 

Full  of  rapture,  full  of  love  ; 
Frolic,  gay,  and  debonair, 

Yet  not  all  exempt  from  care. 
For  thy  nest  is  in  the  grass, 

And  thou  worriest  as  I  pass  ; 
But  no  hand  nor  foot  of  mine 

Shall  do  harm  to  thee  or  thine  ; 
I,  musing,  only  pause  to  think 

Of  my  boyhood's  bobolink. 

But  no  bobolink  of  mine 

Ever  sang  o'er  mead  so  fine,  — 
Starred  with  flowers  of  every  hue, 

Gold  and  purple,  white  and  blue. 
Painted  cup,  anemone, 

Jacob's  ladder,  fleur-de-lis, 
Orchid,  harebell,  shooting-star. 

Crane's  bill,  lupine,  seen  afar. 
Primrose,  rubus,  saxifrage. 

Pictured  type  on  Nature's  page,  — 
These  and  others,  here  unnamed. 

In  northland  gardens,  yet  untamed. 
Deck  the  fields  where  thou  dost  sing. 

Mounting  up  on  trembhng  wing  ; 
Yet  in  wistful  mood  I  think 

Of  my  boyhood's  bobolink. 

On  Unalaska's  emerald  lea, 
On  lonely  isles  in  Bering  Sea, 
100 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

On  far  Siberia's  barren  shore, 
On  north  Alaska's  tundra  floor  ; 

At  morn,  at  noon,  in  palHd  night. 

We  heard  thy  song  and  saw  thy  flight. 

While  I,  sighing,  could  but  think 
Of  my  boyhood's  bobolink. 

On  the  higher  peaks,  amid  lingering  snow-banks, 
Mr.  Ridgway  found  the  snow  bunting  and  the  tit- 
lark nesting.  Unalaska  looked  quite  as  interesting  as 
Kadiak,  and  I  longed  to  spend  some  days  there  in 
the  privacy  of  its  green  solitudes,  following  its  limpid 
trout  streams,  climbing  its  lofty  peaks,  and  listen- 
ing to  the  music  of  the  longspur.  I  had  seen  much, 
but  had  been  intimate  with  little  ;  now  if  I  could 
only  have  a  few  days  of  that  kind  of  intimacy  with 
this  new  nature  which  the  saunterer,  the  camper- 
out,  the  stroller  through  fields  in  the  summer  twi- 
light has,  I  should  be  more  content;  but  in  the  after- 
noon the  ship  was  off  into  Bering  Sea,  headed  for 
the  Seal  Islands,  and  I  was  aboard  her,  but  with 
wistful  and  reverted  eyes. 

The  first  hour  or  two  out  from  Dutch  Harbor  we 
sailed  past  high,  rolling,  green  hills,  cut  squarely  off 
by  the  sea,  presenting  cliffs  seven  or  eight  hundred 
feet  high  of  soft,  reddish,  crumbling  rock,  a  kind  of 
clay  porphyry  of  volcanic  origin,  touched  here  and 
there  on  the  face  with  the  tenderest  green.  It  was  as 
if  some  green  fluid  had  been  poured  upon  the  tops  of 

101 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

the  hills,  antl  had  run  down  and  dripped  off  the  rock 
eaves  and  been  caught  upon  every  shelf  and  projec- 
tion. The  color  was  deepest  in  all  the  wrinkles  and 
folds  of  the  slopes  and  in  the  valley  bottoms.  At  one 
point  we  looked  into  a  deep,  smooth  valley  or  trough 
opening  upon  the  sea,  its  shore-line  a  complete  half- 
circle.  Its  bottom  was  nearly  at  the  water  level,  and 
was  as  fresh  and  vivid  as  a  lawn  in  spring.  Some  one 
suggested  that  it  looked  like  a  huge  dry  dock,  if  dry 
docks  are  ever  carpeted  with  grass.  The  effect  was 
extremely  strange  and  beautiful.  The  clouds  rested 
low  across  the  hills,  and  formed  a  dense  canopy  over 
the  vast  verdant  cradle ;  under  this  canopy  we 
looked  along  a  soft  green  vista  for  miles  back  into 
the  hills,  wdiere  patches  of  snow  were  visible.  At 
another  point  a  similar  trough  or  cradle  had  been 
carved  down  to  w^ithin  a  hundred  or  more  feet  of  the 
sea,  and  upon  its  rocky  face  hung  a  beautiful  water- 
fall. Then  followed  other  lesser  valleys  that  did 
not  show  the  same  glacial  cross-section ;  they  were 
V-shaped  instead  of  U-shaped,  each  marked  by  a 
waterfall  into  the  sea.  There  were  three  of  these  in 
succession  cutting  the  rocky  sea  front  into  pyramidal 
forms.  Often  the  talus  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs  w^as 
touched  by  the  same  magic  green.  Then  opened 
up  larger  valleys,  into  v/hicli  Ave  looked  under  an  up- 
rolled  drop-curtain  of  cloud.  One  of  them,  lighted  up 
by  the  sun,  showed  us  an  irregularly  carved  valley 
landscape,  suggesting  endless  possil)ilities  of  flocks 

10^ 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

and  herds  and  rural  homes.  Here  again  the  green 
fluid  seemed  to  have  found  its  way  down  the  creases 
and  runnels  and  was  deepest  there.  Everywhere 
such  a  sweep  of  green  skirts  as  these  Alaskan  hills 
and  mountains  present,  often  trailing  to  the  sea! 
I  never  tired  of  them,  and  if  I  dwell  upon  them 
unduly  long,  let  the  reader  remember  that  a  thou- 
sand miles  of  this  kind  of  scenery,  passing  slowly 
before  one  on  a  succession  of  summer  days,  make 
an  impression  not  easily  thrown  off. 

THE   SEAL   ISLANDS 

Before  many  hours  we  ran  into  lowering,  misty 
weather  in  Bering  Sea,  and  about  seven  o'clock  were 
off  the  Bogoslof  Islands,  two  abrupt  volcanic 
mounds,  one  of  them  thrown  up  in  recent  years.  The 
other  is  the  breeding-ground  of  innumerable  sea- 
lions,  yes,  and  of  myriads  of  murres,  a  species  of 
diver.  With  our  glasses,  when  we  were  several  miles 
away,  we  could  see  the  murres  making  the  air  almost 
thick  about  the  rocks  as  with  clouds  of  black  specks. 
We  could  see  the  sea-lions,  too,  great  windrows  of 
them,  upon  the  beach.  We  dropped  anchor  about 
two  miles  away,  and  a  party  of  seven  or  eight  ^^'ent 
ashore  in  a  boat,  — a  hazardous  proceeding,  our  cap- 
tain thought,  as  the  fog  seemed  likely  to  drop  at  any 
moment  and  obliterate  island  and  ship  alike;  but  it 
did  not  drop,  only  the  top  of  the  island  was  oblit- 
erated. We  could  see  the  sea-lions  lift  themselves  up 

103 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

and  gather  in  groups  as  the  boat  approached  their 
rookerv. 

Then,  after  the  landing  was  effected,  they  disap- 
peared, and  we  could  see  the  spray  rise  up  as  the 
monsters  plunged  into  the  water.  Hundreds  of  them 
were  in  a  small  lake  a  few  rods  back  from  the  shore, 
and  the  spectacle  which  the  procession  of  the  huge 
creatures  made  rushing  across  the  beach  to  the  sea 
was  described  as  something  most  extraordinary. 
Those  who  were  so  fortunate  as  to  witness  it  placed 
it  among  the  three  or  four  most  memorable  events 
of  their  lives. 

On  the  afternoon  of  Sunday,  July  9,  we  dropped 
anchor  off  St.  Paul  Island,  one  of  the  Pribilofs,  the 
famous  resort  of  the  fur  seals.  A  special  permit 
from  the  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  gave  us  the 
privilege.  There  is  no  harbor  here,  and  the  landing, 
even  in  calm  weather,  requires  to  be  carefully  man- 
aged. The  island  is  low,  with  a  fringe  of  loose  boul- 
ders around  it,  which  in  places  looked  almost  like  an 
artificial  wall.  The  government  agent  conducted  us 
a  mile  or  more  through  wild  meadows  starred  with 
flowers  and  covered  with  grass  nearly  knee-high,  to 
the  boulder-paved  shore  where  the  seals  were  con- 
gregated. Those  of  our  party  who  had  been  there 
before,  not  many  years  back,  were  astonished  at  the 
diminished  numbers  of  the  animals,  —  hardly  one 
tenth  of  the  earlier  myriads.  We  visited  eight  or  ten 
"harems,'*  as  they  are  called,  groups  of  a  dozen  or 

104 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

more  females,  each  presided  over  by  a  male  or  bull 
seal,  whose  position  was  usually  upon  a  kind  of 
throne  or  higher  boulder  in  the  midst  of  his  wives. 
Every  few  minutes  this  male,  which  was  much  larger 
and  darker  in  color  than  the  females,  would  lift  him- 
self up  and  glance  around  over  his  circle  as  if  count- 
ing his  flock,  then  snarl  at  some  rival  a  few  yards 
away,  or  turn  and  threaten  us.  We  gazed  upon 
them  and  trained  our  cameras  at  leisure.  Often  a 
young  male,  wifeless  and  crowded  back  by  older 
bulls,  threatened  us  near  the  edge  of  the  grass  with 
continued  demonstrations  of  anger.  These  un- 
mated  males  were  in  bad  humor  anyway,  and  our 
appearance  seemed  to  furnish  them  a  good  excuse 
to  give  vent  to  their  feelings.  In  this  market  the 
females  belong  to  the  strong.  We  saw  several  for- 
lorn old  males  hovering  around,  who  had  played  the 
game  and  lost.  They  looked  like  bankrupt  gamblers 
at  a  watering-place. 

The  females  are  much  smaller  and  lighter  in  color 
than  their  lords  and  masters.  They  lay  very  quietly 
among  the  rocks,  now  and  then  casting  uneasy 
glances  at  us.  Their  heads  are  small  and  their  jaws 
slender;  their  growls  and  threats  are  not  very  terri- 
fying. 

Lying  there  in  masses  or  wriggling  about  upon 
the  rocks,  all  their  lines  soft  and  flowing,  all  their 
motions  hampered,  the  fur  seals  suggest  huge  larva?, 
or  sometliing  between  the  grub  and  tlie  mature 

105 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

insect.  They  appear  to  be  yet  in  a  kind  of  sac  or 
envelope.  The  males  wri<r(rle  about  like  a  man  in  a 
hivr;  but  once  in  the  water,  they  are  a  part  of  the 
wave,  as  fleet  and  nim])le  as  a  fish,  or  as  a  bird  in  the 
air.  In  the  sounds  which  they  continually  emitted 
they  did  not  remind  me  of  bulls  or  cows,  but  of 
sheep.  The  hoarse  staccato  bleating  of  the  males 
was  hke  that  of  old  rams,  while  the  shriller  calls  of 
the  females  and  the  fine  treble  of  the  pups  were 
equally  like  those  of  ewes  and  lambs.  Some  be- 
lated females  were  still  arriving  while  we  looked  on. 
They  came  in  timidly,  lifted  themselves  upon  the 
edge  of  the  rocks,  and  looked  about  as  if  to  find  a 
vacant  place,  or  to  receive  a  welcome.  Much  spar- 
ring and  threatening  were  going  on  among  the  males, 
but  I  saw  ncne  actually  come  to  blows.  By  careful 
movements  and  low  tones  we  went  about  without 
much  exciting  them. 

On  this  island  we  first  saw  the  yellow  poppy.  It 
was  scattered  everywhere  amid  the  grass,  like  the 
scarlet  poppy  of  Europe.  A  wonderful  display  of 
other  wild  flowers  was  about  our  feet  as  we  walked. 
Here  also  the  Eapland  longspur  was  in  song,  and  a 
few  snow  buntings  in  white  plumage  drifted  about 
over  the  flowery  meads.  On  a  big  w^indrow  of  boul- 
ders along  the  beach  near  Avhere  we  landed  w^ere 
swarms  of  noisy  water-birds,  mainly  least  auklets, 
called  "  choochkies  "  by  the  natives. 


106 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

SIBERIA 

According  to  our  original  programme  our  outward 
journey  should  have  ended  at  the  Seal  Islands,  hut 
Mrs.  Harriman  expressed  a  wish  to  see  Siheria,  and, 
if  all  went  well,  the  midnight  sun.  "Very  well," 
rephed  Mr.  Harriman,  "we  will  go  to  Siberia,"  and 
toward  that  barren  shore  our  prow  was  turned.  It 
w^as  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  v/hen  we  left 
St.  Paul  ;  a  dense  fog  prevailed,  hiding  the  shore. 
We  had  not  been  an  hour  under  way  when  a  horrible 
raking  blow  from  some  source  made  the  ship  tremble 
from  stem  to  stern;  then  another  and  another,  still 
more  severe.  The  shock  came  from  beneath:  our 
keel  was  upon  the  rocks.  Many  of  the  company 
w^ere  at  dinner;  all  sprang  to  their  feet,  and  looked 
the  surprise  and  alarm  they  did  not  speak.  The 
engines  were  quickly  reversed,  a  sail  ^vas  hoisted/, 
in  a  few  moments  the  ship's  prow  swung  off  to 
the  right,  and  the  danger  was  passed,  —  we  were 
afloat  again.  The  stern  of  the  ship,  which  was  two 
feet  deeper  in  the  w'ater  than  the  bow,  had  raked 
across  the  rocks.  No  damage  was  done,  and  we  had 
had  a  novel  sensation,  something  analogous,  I  fancy, 
to  the  feeling  one  has  upon  land  during  an  earth- 
quake. 

Some  of  us  hoped  this  incident  would  en  use  Mr. 
Harriman  to  turn  back.  Bering  Sea  is  a  treacherous 
sea;  it  is  shallow;  it  has  many  islands;  and  in  sum- 

107 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

mer  it  is  nearly  always  draped  in  fog.  Our  host  was 
a  man  not  easy  to  turn  back,  and  in  five  minutes  he 
was  romping  with  his  children  again  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  The  ship's  course  was  changed  to 
southeast,  around  Walrus  Island  ;  and  it  did,  indeed, 
look  for  a  while  as  if  we  had  more  than  half  a  mind 
to  turn  back  ;  but  in  a  couple  of  hours  we  were 
headed  toward  Siberia  again,  and  went  plunging 
through  the  fog  and  obscurity  with  our  "ferocious 
whistle,"  as  Professor  Emerson  characterized  it, 
tearing  the  silence  and  our  sleep  alike  to  tatters. 
The  next  day,  the  10th,  we  hoped  to  touch  at  the 
Island  of  St.  Matthew,  but  we  missed  it  in  the  thick 
obscurity  and  searching  for  it  was  hazardous,  so  we 
went  again  northward. 

The  fog  continued  on  the  11th  till  nearly  noon, 
when  we  ran  into  clear  air  and  finally  into  sunshine, 
and  in  the  early  afternoon  the  coast  of  Siberia  lay 
before  us  like  a  cloud  upon  the  horizon,  —  Asia  at 
last,  crushed  down  there  on  the  rim  of  the  world  as 
though  with  the  weight  of  her  centuries  and  her  cruel 
Czar's  iniquities.  As  we  drew  near,  her  gray,  crum- 
bling, decrepit  granite  bluffs  and  mountains,  streaked 
with  snow,  helped  the  illusion.  This  was  the  Old 
World  indeed.  Our  destination  w^as  Plover  Bay, 
where  at  six  in  the  afternoon  w^e  dropped  anchor 
behind  a  long,  crescent-shaped  sandspit  that  put 
out  from  the  eastern  shore.  On  this  sandspit  was  an 
Eskimo  encampment  of  skin-covered  huts,  which 

108 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

was  soon  astir  with  moving  forms.  Presently  eight 
of  the  figures  were  seen  moving  down  to  the  beach. 
A  boat  was  launched  and  filled,  and  came  rapidly  to 
the  ship's  side.  It  was  made  of  walrus  skin  stretched 
over  a  wooden  frame,  and  was  a  strong,  shapely  craft. 
Its  occupants  also  were  clad  in  skins.  There  were 
three  women  and  nine  men  in  the  boat,  but  one  had 
to  look  very  closely  to  tell  which  was  which.  The 
men's  crowns  were  shaved,  leaving  a  heavy  fringe  of 
coarse  black  hair  around  their  heads.  One  of  them, 
probably  thirty  or  tliirty-five  years  of  age,  stood  up 
in  the  bow  of  the  boat,  and  with  his  cloak  of  reddish- 
gray  fur  was  really  a  handsome  man.  He  had  a  thin 
black  beard  and  regular,  clear-cut  features,  and 
looked  as  one  fancies  an  old  Roman  of  his  age  might 
have  looked.  They  were  evidently  drawn  to  us 
partly  by  curiosity  and  partly  by  the  hope  of  gifts 
of  tobacco  and  whiskey.  The  tobacco  was  freely 
showered  upon  them  by  Mr.  Harriman,  and  was 
eagerly  seized,  but  the  whiskey  was  not  forthcom- 
ing. 

Our  own  boats  were  rapidly  lowered,  and  we  were 
soon  upon  Asiatic  soil,  gathering  flowers,  observing 
the  birds,  and  strolling  about  among  the  tents  and 
huts  of  the  natives.  We  bought  skins  and  curios  of 
them,  or  bartered  knives  and  cloth  for  such  things  as 
they  had  to  dispose  of.  They  would  take  our  silver 
dollars,  but  much  preferred  skinning-knivesor  other 
useful  articles.    They  were  not  shy  of  our  cameras, 

109 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

and  freely  admitted  us  to  the  f^reasy  and  smok}^ 
interiors  of  their  dwellings.  As  the  Eskimos  stood 
regarding  us,  they  would  draw  their  hands  into  their 
sleeves,  after  the  manner  of  children  on  a  cold  morn- 
ing. Their  skin  costumes  gave  them  a  singular 
stuffed  appearance.  One  was  reminded  of  grotesque 
dolls  filled  with  bran  or  sawdust.  This  effect  was 
due  in  part  to  the  awkward  cut  of  their  garments 
and  to  the  fact  that  the  skins  were  made  up  hair  side 
in.  Some  of  the  natives  showed  a  strain  of  Euro- 
pean blood;  whalers  bound  for  the  Arctic  Ocean 
sometimes  stop  here,  and  corrupt  them  with  bad 
morals  and  villainous  vv^hiskey. 

Throughout  the  village  seals  and  seal  oil,  reindeer 
skins,  w^alrus  hides,  and  blubber  were  most  notice- 
able. Behind  the  tent  I  saw  a  deep,  partly  covered 
pit  in  the  ground,  nearly  filled  wath  oil,  and  a  few 
rods  farther  off  others  were  seen.  The  bones  of 
w  hales  served  instead  of  timbers  in  most  of  the  rude 
structures.  The  winter  houses  were  built  by  stand- 
ing up  whale  ribs  about  two  feet  apart  in  a  circle, 
and  filling  up  the  ixiterstices  with  turf,  making  a  wall 
two  feet  thick.  For  a  roof  they  used  walrus  hides, 
resting  upon  poles.  In  my  walk  over  this  crescent  of 
land  I  came  here  and  there  upon  the  huge  vertebrae 
of  whales,  scattered  about,  and  looking  like  the  gray, 
weather-worn  granite  boulders  on  a  New  England 
farm. 

Beyond  the  present  site  of  the  encampment  I  saw 

110 


IN    GREEN    AEASKA 

the  ruins  of  an  older  or  Ccarlier  village,  the  foun- 
dations of  whale  bones  partly  overgrown  by  the 
turf. 

As  we  came  in  at  one  end  of  the  encampment 
most  of  the  dogs  went  out  at  the  other  end.  They 
had  never  before  seen  such  looking  creatures,  and 
they  fled  off  toward  the  mountain,  where  they  sat 
down  and  howled  their  mournful  protest.  Some  of 
the  children  were  frightened  too ;  one  youngster  of 
five  or  six  years,  stuffed  like  a  small  scarecrow,  riding 
astride  his  mother's  neck,  cried  and  yelled  vigorously 
as  we  approached.  The  sun  was  bright,  but  the  air 
was  very  chilly,  the  mercury  standing  at  about  38° 
Fahrenheit.  We  were  within  one  hundred  and  twenty 
miles  of  the  Arctic  circle.  The  slender  peninsula  we 
were  on  was  a  few  hundred  feet  wide ;  it  was  marshy 
in  some  places,  but  for  the  most  part  dry  and  covered 
with  herbage.  Here  were  yello^v  poppies  bloom- 
ing, and  two  species  of  saxifrage.  In  my  walk  I 
came  upon  a  large  patch  of  ground  covered  with  a 
small,  low,  pink  primrose.  The  ground  was  painted 
with  it.  But  the  prettiest  flow^er  we  found  was  a 
forget-me-not,  scarcely  an  inch  high,  of  deep  ultra- 
marine blue,  —  the  deepest,  most  intense  blue  I 
ever  saw  in  a  wild  flower.  Here  also  we  saw  and 
heard  the  Lapland  longspur  and  the  yellow  wag- 
tail. A  flock  of  male  eider  ducks  was  seen  in  the 
bay. 


Ill 


FAR   AND    NEAR 


PORT   CLARENCE 


We  traveled  two  hours  in  Asia.  I  am  tempted  to 
write  a  book  on  the  country,  but  forbear.  At  eight 
o'clock  we  steamed  away  along  the  coast  toward 
Indian  Point,  in  an  unending  twilight.  We  arrived 
there  at  midnight,  l)ut  the  surf  was  running  so  high 
that  no  landing  was  attempted.  Then  we  stood  off 
across  Bering  Strait  for  Port  Clarence  in  Alaska, 
where  we  hoped  to  take  water,  passing  in  sight  of 
King  Island  and  the  Diomedes,  and  about  noon 
again  dropped  anchor  behind  a  long,  sickle-shaped 
sandspit,  which  curves  out  from  the  southern  head- 
land, ten  or  twelve  miles  away.  In  the  great  basin 
behind  tliis  sand-bar  a  dozen  vessels  of  the  whaling 
fleet  were  anchored  and  making  ready  to  enter  the 
Arctic  Ocean,  where  some  of  them  expected  to  spend 
the  winter.  The  presence  of  the  fleet  had  drav/n  to- 
gether upon  the  sand-bar  over  two  hundred  Eskimos 
for  trade  and  barter  with  the  whalers.  Their  shapely 
skin  boats,  filled  wdth  people,  —  men,  women,  chil- 
dren, often  to  the  number  of  twenty,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  dogs,  —  soon  swarmed  about  our  ship.  They 
had  all  manner  of  furs,  garments,  baskets,  ornaments, 
and  curios  for  sale  or  for  barter.  An  animated  and 
picturesque  scene  they  presented,  and  dozens  of 
cameras  were  leveled  at  them.  In  dress  they  pre- 
sented a  much  more  trim  and  shapely  appearance 
than  did  the  people  we  had  just  left  in  Siberia,  though 

112 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

much  the  same  in  other  respects.  Some  of  the 
younger  women  were  fairly  good-looking,  and  their 
fur  hoods  and  fur  cloaks  became  them  well.  I  no- 
ticed that  the  babies  cried  very  much  as  babies  do 
at  home.  Most  of  the  women  were  dressed  in  hair 
seal  or  reindeer  skins,  but  some  wore  an  outer  gar- 
ment of  colored  cotton  cloth,  hanging  loosely  to  the 
knees.  It  was  interesting  to  see  them  tuck  their 
babies  under  this  garment  from  the  rear.  The 
mother  would  bend  forw^ard  very  low,  thrust  the 
child  under  the  garment  at  her  hips,  and  by  a  dexter- 
ous wriggling  movement  of  her  body  propel  it  for- 
ward till  its  head  protruded  above  her  shoulder. 
One  marked  its  course  along  her  back  as  he  does 
that  of  a  big  morsel  down  a  chicken's  gullet. 

Some  of  the  captains  of  the  whalers  came  aboard 
our  ship  to  advise  us  about  taking  water.  They  were 
large,  powerful,  resolute-looking  men,  quite  equal, 
one  would  say,  to  the  task  before  them.  Water  was 
to  be  procured  from  a  stream  that  ran  in  from  the 
tundra  on  the  southern  shore  of  the  bay  about  a 
dozen  miles  distant.  Leaving  part  of  our  company 
to  visit  the  whalers  and  the  Eskimos,  the  ship  steamed 
away  with  the  rest  of  us  for  water,  and  in  due  course 
anchored  near  the  mouth  of  the  little  stream.  This 
gave  us  an  opportunity  to  spend  several  hours  upon 
the  real  tundra.  Cape  Nome  was  on  the  other  side  of 
the  peninsula,  fifty  miles  away,  but  the  fame  of  the 
gold  fields  had  not  then  reached  us.    We  may  have 

113 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

walked  ovei  ground  rich  in  gold,  but  our  mining 
expert  failed  to  call  our  attention  to  the  fact.  As  we 
approached  the  land,  it  looked  as  smooth  as  if  it  had 
just  been  gone  over  with  a  mowing-machine.  My 
first  thought  was,  "  Well,  the  people  are  done  haying 
here."  The  tundra  was  of  a  greenish  brown  color, 
and  rose  from  a  long,  crescent-shaped  beach  in  a  very 
gentle  ascent  to  low  cones  and  l)are  volcanic  peaks 
many  miles  away.  It  had  the  appearance  of  a  vast 
meadow  tilted  up  but  a  few  degrees  from  the  level. 
This,  then,  w^as  the  tundra  that  covers  so  much  of 
North  America,  where  the  ground  remains  per- 
petually frozen  to  an  unknown  depth,  thawing  out 
only  a  foot  or  so  on  the  surface  during  the  summer. 
How  eagerly  we  stepped  upon  it;  how  quickly  we 
dispersed  in  all  directions,  lured  on  by  the  strange- 
ness !  In  a  few  moments  our  hands  were  full  of  wild 
flowers,  which  w^e  kept  dropping  to  gather  others 
more  attractive,  these,  in  turn,  to  be  discarded  as  still 
more  novel  ones  appeared.  I  found  myself  very 
soon  treading  upon  a  large  pink  claytonia  or  spring 
beauty,  many  times  the  size  of  our  delicate  April 
flower  of  the  same  name.  Soon  I  came  upon  a  bank 
by  the  httle  creek  covered  with  a  low,  nodding  purple 
primrose ;  then  masses  of  the  shooting-star  attracted 
me  ;  then  several  species  of  pedicularis,  a  yellow 
anemone,  and  many  saxifrages.  A  complete  list  of 
flowers  blooming  here  within  sixty  miles  of  the  Arctic 
circle,  in  a  thin  layer  of  soil  resting  upon  perpetual 

114 


IN    GREEN   AIASKA 

frost,  would  be  a  long  one.  There  were  wild  bees 
here  too,  to  cross-fertilize  the  flowers,  and  bumble- 
bees  boomed  by  very  much  as  at  home.  And  mosqui- 
toes, how  they  swarmed  up  out  of  the  grass  upon  me 
when,  in  my  vain  effort  to  reach  a  little  volcanic  cone 
that  rose  up  there  before  me  like  a  haystack  in  a 
meadow,  I  sat  down  to  rest !  I  could  not  seem  to  get 
nearer  the  haystack,  though  I  sometimes  ran  to  get 
away  from  the  mosquitoes.  The  tundra  proved  far 
less  smooth  to  the  feet  than  the  eye  had  promised. 
It  was  wet  and  boggy.  A  tundra  is  always  wet  in 
summer,  as  the  frost  prevents  any  underground 
drainage.  But  it  was  very  uniform  and  the  walking 
not  difficult;  moss,  bogs,  grass,  and  flowering  plants 
covered  it  everywhere.  The  savanna  sparrow  and 
the  longspur  started  up  before  me  as  I  walked,  and 
as  I  descended  toward  a  branch  of  the  little  creek 
after  an  hour's  tramp,  a  new  note  caught  my  ear. 
Presently  I  saw  some  plovers  skimming  over  the 
ground  in  advance  of  me,  or  alighting  upon  tussocks 
of  moss  and  uttering  a  soft,  warbling  call.  They 
proved  to  be  golden  plovers;  I  had  evidently  in- 
vaded their  breedino^-o:rounds,  and  thev  were  making 
their  musical  protest.  At  times  the  males,  as  they 
circled  about  me,  warbled  in  the  most  delicrhtful 
manner.  There  was  in  it,  underneath  its  bright  joy- 
ousness,  a  tone  of  soft  pleading  and  entreaty  that 
was  very  moving,  —  the  voice  of  the  tundra,  soft, 
alluring,  plaintive,  beautiful.    The  golden  plover  is 

115 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

mottled  black  and  white  with  a  rich  golden  tinge 
on  its  back.  It  is  a  wonderful  fiver.  We  found  it 
near  the  Arctic  circle;  six  months  later,  probably  the 
same  birds  might  have  been  found  in  Patagonia. 

In  a  patch  of  willows  along  the  creek  the  gray- 
cheeked  thrush  w^as  in  song,  and  the  fox  sparrow  and 
the  western  tree  sparrow  were  found.  I  saw  one  of 
the  thrushes  do  what  I  never  saw  any  of  the  thrush 
kind  do  before:  it  hovered  in  the  air  fifty  feet  or 
more  above  the  moor  and  repeated  its  song  three 
times  very  rapidly.  As  there  were  no  trees  to  afford 
it  a  lofty  perch,  it  perched  upon  the  air. 

It  was  a  very  novel  experience,  this  w^alking  over 
the  tundra;  its  vastness,  its  uniformity,  its  solitude, 
its  gentleness,  its  softness  of  contour,  its  truly  bo- 
real character,  —  the  truncated  hills  and  peaks  on 
the  near  horizon  suggesting  huge  earthworks,  the 
rounded  and  curved  elevations  like  the  backs  of  pros- 
trate  giants  turned  up  to  the  sun,  and  farther  off  the 
high,  serrated,  snow-streaked  ranges  on  the  remote 
horizon  to  the  north,  —  all  made  up  a  curious  and 
unfamiliar  picture. 

We  were  fortunate  in  having  clear,  bright  skies 
during  our  stay  in  these  high  latitudes.  But  the 
nights  were  starless;  the  sun  was  so  near,  there 
was  so  much  light  in  the  sky,  that  the  stars  were 
put  out.  The  sun  set  about  ten  and  rose  about 
two,  dipping  down  but  a  little  way  below  the  bori° 
zon. 

116 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 


ST.    LAWRENCE    ISLAND 


Port  Clarence  was  the  northernmost  point  we 
reached.  A  little  farther  north  the  ice  pack  closed 
the  gateway  to  the  Arctic  Ocean.  An  excursion  into 
the  ice  to  see  the  midnight  sun  did  not  hold  out  in- 
ducements enough  to  offset  the  dangers.  So  in  the 
early  morning  of  July  13  we  steamed  away  on  the 
return  trip.  Before  noon  we  were  again  in  the  thick 
veil  of  fog  with  which  Bering  Sea  always  seems  to 
cover  her  face.  Near  nightfall,  with  a  stiff  wind 
blowing,  we  anchored  off  St.  Lawrence  Island,  and 
two  boat-loads  of  our  people  went  ashore.  St.  Law- 
rence is  a  large  island  at  the  gateway  of  the  Arctic 
Ocean,  and  in  spring  the  ice  floes  from  the  north 
often  strand  polar  bears  upon  it.  Our  hunters  still 
dreamed  of  bears.  The  shore  was  low  and  marshy, 
and  the  high  land  miles  away  was  hidden  by  the 
canopy  of  fog  resting  upon  it.  In  his  walk  one  of 
our  doctors  saw  the  backs  of  two  large  white  ob- 
jects, showing  above  a  little  swell  in  the  land.  Here 
evidently  were  the  polar  bears  they  were  in  quest  of. 

The  doctor  begins  to  stalk  them,  replacing  the 
shells  in  his  gun  with  heavier  ones  as  he  creeps  along. 
Now  he  has  another  glimpse  of  the  white  backs ;  they 
are  moving  and  can  be  nothing  but  bears.  A  few 
moments  more  and  he  will  be  within  close  range, 
when  lo!  the  heads  and  long  necks  of  two  white 
swans  come  up  above  the  bank !  The  doctor  said  he 

117 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

never  felt  so  much  like  a  fi^oose  before  in  his  life.  The 
hirds  aiuJ  flowers  found  were  about  the  same  as 
those  we  had  already  seen. 

Not  many  years  ago  there  were  on  St.  Lawrence 
Island  many  encampments  of  Eskimos,  embracing 
several  hundred  people.  I.atc  one  autumn  some 
whalers  turned  u})  there  with  the  worst  kind  of  whis- 
key, with  which  they  wrought  the  ruin  of  the  na- 
tives, persuading  them  to  exchange  most  of  their 
furs  and  other  valuables  for  it,  and  leaving  them  so 
debauched  and  demoralized  that  nearly  all  perished 
of  cold  and  hunger  the  following  winter.  Village 
after  village  was  found  cjuite  depopulated,  the  people 
lying  dead  in  their  houses. 

HALL   AND    ST.    MATTHEW    ISLANDS 

From  St.  Lawrence  Island  our  course  w^as  asrain 
through  fog  to  St.  Matthew  Island,  w^hich  we  missed 
on  our  w^ay  up,  and  which  we  now  found  late  in  the 
afternoon  of  the  next  day.  Our  first  stop  w^as  at  Hall 
Island,  which  once  probably  formed  a  part  of  St. 
Matthew,  but  is  now  separated  from  it  only  by  a  nar- 
row strait.  This  w^as  our  first  visit  to  uninhabited 
land,  and  to  a  land  of  such  unique  grace  and  beauty 
that  the  impression  it  made  cannot  soon  be  forgotten, 
—  a  thick  carpet  of  moss  and  many-colored  flowers 
covering  an  open,  smooth,  undulating  country  that 
faced  the  sea  in  dark  basaltic  cliffs,  some  of  them  a 
thousand  feet  high.    The  first  thing  that  attracted 

118 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

our  attention  was  the  murres  —  "arries,"  the  Aleuts 
call  them  —  about  their  rookeries  on  the  cliffs.  Their 
numbers  darkened  the  air.  As  we  approached,  the 
faces  of  the  rocks  seemed  paved  with  them,  with  a 
sprinkling  of  gulls,  puffins,  black  cormorants,  and 
auklets.  On  landing  at  a  break  in  the  cliffs  where  a 
little  creek  came  down  to  the  sea,  our  first  impulse 
was  to  walk  along  the  brink  and  look  down  upon  the 
murres  and  see  them  swarm  out  beneath  our  feet. 
On  the  discharge  of  a  gun  the  air  became  ])lack 
with  them,  while  the  cliffs  apparently  remained  as 
populous  as  ever.  They  sat  on  little  shelves  or  niches 
with  their  black  backs  to  the  sea,  each  bird  covering 
one  egg  with  its  tail  feathers.  In  places  one  could 
have  reached  down  and  seized  them  by  the  neck, 
they  were  so  tame  and  so  near  the  top  of  the  rocks.  I 
believe  one  of  our  party  did  actually  thus  procure  a 
specimen.  It  was  a  strange  spectacle,  and  we  lingered 
long  looking  upon  it.  To  behold  sea  fowl  like  flies 
in  uncounted  millions  was  a  new  experience.  Every- 
where in  Bering  Sea  the  murres  sw^arm  like  vermin. 
It  seems  as  if  there  was  a  murre  to  every  square  yard 
of  surface.  They  were  flying  about  over  the  ship  or 
flapping  over  the  water  away  from  her  front  at  all 
times.  I  noticed  that  they  could  not  get  up  from  the 
water  except  against  the  wind ;  the  w^ind  lifted  them 
as  it  does  a  kite.  With  the  wind  or  in  a  calm  they 
skimmed  along  on  the  surface,  their  heads  bent  for- 
ward, their  wings  beating  the  water  impatiently. 

119 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

Unable  to  rise,  they  would  glance  behind  them  in  a 
fri<j^htened  manner,  tJien  plunge  beneath  the  waves 
until  they  thought  the  danger  had  passed.  At  all 
hours  of  the  night  and  day  one  could  hear  this  impa- 
tient flapping  of  the  frightened  murres.  The  bird 
is  a  species  of  diver,  nearly  as  large  as  a  black 
duck.  Its  tail  is  so  short  that  in  flying  the  two 
webbed  feet  stretched  behind  do  the  duty  of  a  tail. 
It  is  amusing  to  see  it  spread  or  contract  them 
in  turning  or  changing  its  course,  as  the  case  re- 
quires. After  we  had  taken  our  fill  of  gazing  upon 
the  murres  came  the  ramble  away  from  the  cliffs,  in 
the  long  twilight,  through  that  mossy  and  flowery 
solitude.  Such  patterns  and  suggestions  for  rugs  and 
carpets  as  we  walked  over  for  hours ;  such  a  blend- 
ing of  grays,  drabs,  browns,  greens,  and  other  delicate 
neutral  tints,  all  dashed  with  masses  of  many-colored 
flowers,  it  had  never  before  been  my  fortune  to  be- 
hold, much  less  to  walk  upon.  Drifting  over  this 
marvelous  carpet,  or  dropping  down  upon  it  from 
the  air  above,  was  the  h}^erborean  snowbird,  w  hite 
as  a  snowflake  and  with  a  song  of  great  sweetness 
and  power.  With  lifted  wings  the  bird  would  drop 
through  the  air  to  the  earth,  pouring  out  its  joyous, 
ecstatic  strain.  Out  of  the  deep  twilight  came  also 
the  song  of  the  longspur,  delivered  on  the  wing,  and 
touching  the  wild  solitude  like  the  voices  of  children 
at  play.  Then  there  was  the  large  Aleutian  sand- 
piper, that  ran  before  me  and  uttered  its  curious  wild 

120 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

plaint.  The  robber  jaeger  was  there  too,  —  a  very 
beautiful  bird,  a  sort  of  cross  between  a  hawk  and  a 
gull,  —  sitting  quietly  upon  the  moss  and  eying  our 
movements.  On  the  top  of  the  grassy  bank  near  the 
sea  some  of  the  party  found  the  nest  and  young  of 
the  snowy  owl.  Fragments  of  the  bodies  of  murres 
and  ducks  lay  upon  the  ground  beside  it. 

The  most  novel  and  striking  of  the  wild  jBowers 
was  a  species  of  large  white  claytonia  growing  in 
rings  of  the  size  of  a  tea  plate,  floral  rings  dropped 
here  and  there  upon  the  carpet  of  moss.  In  the  centre 
was  a  rosette  of  pointed  green  leaves  pressed  close  to 
the  ground;  around  this  grew  the  ring  of  flowers, 
made  up  of  thirty  or  forty  individuals,  all  springing 
from  the  same  root,  their  faces  turned  out  in  all  direc- 
tions from  the  parent  centre.  In  places  they  were  so 
near  together  that  one  could  easily  step  from  one 
circle  to  another. 

The  forenoon  of  the  next  day,  the  15th,  we  spent 
upon  St.  Matthew  Island,  and  repeated  our  experi- 
ence of  walking  over  ground  covered  with  na- 
ture's matchless  tapestry.  Here,  too,  a  thick,  heavy 
carpet  of  variegated  mosses  and  lichens  had  been 
stretched  to  the  very  edge  of  the  cliffs,  with  rugs  and 
mats  of  many-colored  flowers — pink,  yellow,  violet, 
white;  saxifrage,  chickweed,  astragalus,  claytonia  — 
dropped  here  and  there  upon  it.  Sometimes  the 
flowers  seemed  worked  into  the  carpet  itself,  and  a 
species  of  creeping  willow  spread  its  leaves  out  as  if 

121 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

stitched  upon  it.  Scattered  about  were  the  yellow 
poppies,  a  yellow  and  a  red  pc(ilcularis,  and  a  rare 
and  curious  blue  flower  in  heads,  the  name  of  which 
I  have  forgotten.  On  the  highest  point  the  blue  and 
purple  astrapjalus  covered  large  areas,  but  the  most 
novel  of  all  the  flowers  was  a  species  of  little  silene 
with  a  bluish  ribbed  flower  precisely  like  a  minia- 
ture Chinese  lantern. 

The  highest  point  of  the  island  was  enveloped 
most  of  the  time  in  fog  and  cloud.  While  groping 
my  way  upon  one  of  these  cloud  summits,  probably 
a  thousand  feet  above  the  sea  which  flowed  at  its 
base,  I  came  suddenly  upon  a  deep  cleft  or  chasm, 
which  opened  in  the  moss  and  flowers  at  my  feet  and 
led  down  between  crumbling  rocky  walls  at  a  fear- 
ful incline  to  the  beach.  It  gave  one  a  sense  of  peril 
that  made  him  pause  quickly.  The  wraiths  of  fog 
and  mist  whirling  through  and  over  it  enhanced  its 
dreadful  mystery  and  depth.  Yet  I  hovered  about  it, 
retreating  and  returning,  c juite  fascinated  by  the  con- 
trast between  the  smooth  flowery  carpet  upon  which 
I  stood  and  the  terrible  yawning  chasm.  When  tht 
fog  lifted  a  little  and  the  sun  gleamed  out,  I  looked 
down  this  groove  into  the  ocean,  and  Tennyson's 
line  came  to  mind  as  accurately  descriptive  of  the 
scene : — 

**  The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls." 

Another  curious  effect  was  the  appearance  of  the 

122 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

bottom  of  the  sea,  visible  a  long  way  out  from  shore. 
The  water  seemed  suddenly  to  become  shallow  or 
else  to  take  on  a  strange  transparency;  the  color  and 
configuration  of  the  rocky  floor  were  surprisingly 
distinct. 

A  new  species  of  small  blue  fox  was  found  and 
killed  upon  the  island,  and  a  sorry  apology  for  a  fox 
it  was.^  It  looked  as  though  it  might  have  been 
singed  or  else  skinned  once,  and  as  though  this  was 
the  second  growth  of  fur.  The  polar  bears  which  our 
sportsmen  had  hoped  for  were  not  found,  though 
the  deep,  broad,  unused  trails  leading  back  from  the 
chffs  had  doubtless  some  time  been  made  by  them. 
Nothing  is  plainer  than  that  one  cannot  go  to  Alaska, 
or  probably  to  any  other  country,  and  say,  "  Come, 
now,  we  will  kill  a  bear,"  and  kill  it,  except  as  a  rare 
streak  of  luck.  It  is  a  game  at  which  two  can  play, 
and  the  bear  plays  his  part  extremely  well.  AH 
large  game  has  its  beat  or  range.  The  first  thing  to 
be  done  is  to  find  this  beat,  which  may  take  days 
or  weeks,  then  the  trial  of  strategy  begins.  If  you 
outgeneral  the  bear,  you  may  carry  off  his  pelt. 

We  found  the  hyperborean  snow  bunting  nesting 
in  crevices  of  the  rocks.  It  was  probably  compelled 
to  this  course  to  escape  the  foxes.  This  was  the  type 
locality  for  this  bird,  and  it  was  very  abundant.  The 
rosy  finch  also  was  seen  along  the  cliffs.     There  were 

1  This  was  the  Hall  Island  Arctic  fox  {Vulpes  hallensis  Merriaml 
£n  worn  summer  dress ;  in  winter  it  is  snow  white. 

123 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

snow-banks  on  the  beach  by  the  sea,  and  piles  of 
driftwood,  most  of  the  large  tree  trunks  doubtless 
brought  down  by  the  Yukon,  and  many  hewn  and 
sawed  timbers  from  wrecked  vessels. 

THE    RETURN    TRIP 

Returning  to  Unalaska,  we  tarried  a  few  hours  at 
Dutch  Harbor  to  take  in  water  and  coal,  and  then, 
for  the  first  time,  our  good  ship  ponited  eastward 
and  toward  home.  A  steamer  from  the  Yukon 
was  also  in  Dutch  Harbor  with  several  hundred 
returning:  fjold-scekers  on  board.  As  we  steamed 
away  I  saw  several  of  them  far  up  on  the  green 
mountain-side  on  our  left  looking  down  upon  us. 
They  were  barely  distinguishable  on  that  broad, 
high,  emerald  slope.  Just  out  of  the  harbor  we  saw 
myriads  of  fulmars,  a  kind  of  petrel.  The  sea  for 
miles  was  black  with  them.  We  touched  again  at 
the  Shumagin  Islands  to  pick  up  the  party  we  had 
left  there  on  the  7th ;  and  on  the  20th  were  again 
at  sweet  pastoral  Kadiak.  The  wild  roses  were  in 
bloom,  very  large  and  fine,  and  armfuls  of  them  were 
brought  in  to  deck  the  table  in  celebration  of  the 
birthday  of  one  of  Mr.  Harrii-ian's  daughters. 
While  here  we  took  an  afternoon  to  visit  Long 
Island,  ten  or  twelve  miles  away,  where  there  was 
another  fox  farm.  It  was  a  low,  wooded  island  of 
several  hundred  acres  stocked  ^tith  about  a  thousand 
blue  foxes.   Some  of  the  animals  peeped  shyly  at  us 

124 


IN    GREEN   ALASKA 

from  around  the  corner  of  an  old  bam,  others 
growled  at  us  from  beneath  it,  while  others  still  lifted 
up  their  voices  in  protest  from  the  woods.  A  great 
many  fish,  trout  and  salmon,  w^ere  drying  in  the  sun 
from  poles  on  the  beach  in  front.  These  were  for  the 
foxes  in  winter.  Magpies  were  common  here  and 
very  tame.  The  farmer  had  a  comfortable  home  and 
a  pleasant  situation,  and  life  there  must  have  many 
attractions.  The  experiment  of  growing  silver-black 
foxes  had  been  tried,  but  had  not  succeeded.  The 
animals  were  so  wild,  and  proved  to  be  such  dainty 
feeders,  that  the  undertaking  was  abandoned.  They 
require  live  game  for  food. 

On  leaving  Kadiak  we  again  ran  into  Cook  Inlet, 
and  put  ashore  two  parties.  But  there  was  a  sudden 
change  of  plan,  the  parties  were  recalled,  and  we 
were  soon  again  at  sea,  homeward  bound. 

ST.    ELIAS   AND    THE   FAIRWEATHER   RANGE 

On  the  23d  we  had  such  a  view  of  St.  Elias  and  all 
that  grand  range  as  is  seldom  granted  to  voyagers. 
One  of  our  artists,  Mr.  Gifford,  was  up  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  finding  the  summit  just 
smitten  with  the  rising  sun,  painted  till  liis  hands 
were  too  cold  to  hold  the  brush. 

We  again  ran  into  Yakutat  Bay,  but  all  I  have  to 
record  is  our  feast  of  Yakutat  strawberries.  The  In- 
dians brought  them  to  us  in  baskets.  The  berries 
looked  pale  and  uninviting,  but  their  flavor  was  really 

125 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

excellent.  They  f]^row  in  great  abundance  in  the  sand 
on  the  beach.  On  the  *2-ith  we  steamed  all  day  oft"  the 
Fairweather  Ranw,  which  lav  there  before  us  with- 
out  a  cloud  or  film  to  dim  its  naked  majesty.  AYe 
were  two  or  three  hours  in  passing  the  great  peak 
itself.  Piled  with  snow  and  beaten  upon  by  a  cloud- 
less sun,  its  reflected  light  shone  in  my  stateroom 
like  that  of  an  enormous  full  moon.  This  w^as  a  day 
in  blue  and  white,  —  blue  of  the  sea  and  sky  and 
white  of  the  mountains,  —  long  to  be  remembered 
but  not  to  be  described.  The  peak  of  St.  Elias, 
standing  above  a  band  of  cloud,  kept  us  in  its  eye 
till  we  were  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  down  the 
coast. 

On  the  25th  we  w^ere  at  Juneau  again,  taking  coal 
and  water.  The  only  toad  I  saw  in  Alaska  I  saw  this 
day,  as  it  was  fumbling  along  in  the  weeds  by  the 
roadside,  just  out  of  Juneau.  Here  also  I  gathered 
my  first  salmon-berries,  —  a  kind  of  raspberry  an 
inch  in  diameter,  w'ith  a  slightly  bitterish  flavor, 
but  very  good. 

The  lovely  weather  still  favored  us  on  our  return 
trip  down  the  inland  passage.  Under  date  of  the  26th 
I  find  this  entry  in  my  note-book:  — 

"15  right  and  w^arm  and  still  ;  all  day  down  the 
inside  passage.  At  one  point  in  Tongass  Narrows, 
fishermen  taking  salmon:  a  large  seine  gathered  in 
between  two  rowboats,  one  of  them  bright  red,  and 
men  in  each  with  forks  picking  the  fish  out  of  the  net 

X2G 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

and  throwing  them  into  the  boat.  The  salmon 
glance  and  wriggle  in  the  sun  like  bars  of  silver. 
Bristling  forests,  tufted  islands,  snow-striped  peaks 
on  every  side.  A  soft,  placid  day,  when  nature  broods 
and  dreams,  both  sea  and  shore  wrapped  in  a  pro- 
found midsummer  tranquillity." 

In  the  afternoon  we  anchored  off  a  deserted  In- 
dian village  north  of  Cape  Fox.  There  v/as  a  row  of 
a  dozen  houses  on  the  beach  of  a  little  bay,  with 
nineteen  totem  poles  standing  along  their  fronts. 
These  totem  poles  were  the  attraction.  There  was  a 
rumor  that  the  Indians  had  nearly  all  died  of  small- 
pox a  few  years  before,  and  that  the  few  survivors 
had  left  under  a  superstitious  fear,  never  to  return. 
It  was  evident  that  the  village  had  not  been  occu- 
pied for  seven  or  eight  years.  Why  not,  therefore, 
secure  some  of  these  totem  poles  for  the  museums  of 
the  various  colleges  represented  by  members  of  the 
expedition  ?  This  was  finally  agreed  upon,  and  all 
hands,  including  the  ship's  crew,  fell  to  digging  up 
and  floating  to  the  ship  five  or  six  of  the  more  striking 
poles.    This  occupied  us  till  the  night  of  the  27th. 

Under  this  date  I  find  this  entry  in  my  note-book : 
"All  day  on  shore  by  the  deserted  Indian  village. 
Clear  and  hot.  I  sit  in  the  shade  of  the  spruces  amid 
huge  logs  of  driftwood  on  the  upper  edge  of  the 
beach,  with  several  Indian  graves  at  my  back,  under 
the  trees,  and  write  up  my  notes, — the  ship  at 
anchor  out  in  the  bay  a  mile  away.    Aided  by  the 

127 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

sailors  the  men  are  taking  down  totem  poles  and 
towing  them  to  the  ship  with  the  naphtha  launches. 
As  I  write  there  are  many  birds  in  the  trees  and 
bushes  near  me,  —  the  rufous  hummer,  the  rufous- 
backed  chickadee,  the  golden-crowned  kinglet,  the 
pine  siskin.  Back  in  the  woods  I  hear  the  russet- 
backed  thrush  and  Steller's  jay.  With  my  lunch  I 
have  some  salmon-berries  gathered  near  by." 

"  July  28.  Woke  up  this  morning  hearing  the 
birds  sing  through  my  open  window.  I  looked  out 
into  the  dusky  wooded  side  of  a  mountain  nearly 
within  a  stone's  throw.  We  were  in  Gren^^[lle  Chan- 
nel, the  skies  clear,  the  sun  shining  full  upon  the  op- 
posite shore.  Presently  we  were  passing  one  of  those 
bewitching  alcoves  or  recesses  in  the  shore  where  the 
mountains  form  a  loop  miles  deep  around  an  inlet 
of  blue  sea,  with  snow-crowned  peaks  above  great 
curves  of  naked  rock  at  the  head  of  it.  Then  we  cut 
one  of  those  curious  tide-lines,  where  two  currents 
of  water  of  different  colors  meet.  The  dividing  line 
is  sharp  and  clear  for  a  long  distance.*' 

The  next  day,  which  was  still  bright  and  warm, 
there  was  a  film  of  smoke  in  the  air  in  the  morning, 
which  increased  as  we  went  south.  We  were  nearing 
the  region  of  forest  fires.  When  we  reached  Seattle 
on  July  30,  this  smoke  had  so  increased  that  all  the 
great  mountains  were  hidden  by  it  as  effectually  as 
they  had  been  by  the  clouds  when  we  entered  upon 
the  voyage. 

128 


IN    GREEN    ALASKA 

We  had  three  tons  of  coal  left  in  our  bunkers,  but 
of  our  little  stock  farm  down  below  only  the  milch 
cow  remained.  She  had  been  to  Siberia  and  back, 
and  had  given  milk  all  the  way. 

No  voyagers  were  ever  more  fortunate  than  we. 
No  storms,  no  winds,  no  delays  nor  accidents  to 
speak  of,  no  illness.  We  had  gone  far  and  fared 
well. 


n 

WILD    LIFE    ABOUT    MY    CABIN 

FRIENDS  have  often  asked  me  why  I  turned 
my  back  upon  the  Hudson  and  retreated  into 
the  wilderness.  Well,  I  do  not  call  it  a  retreat;  I  call 
it  a  withdrawal,  a  retirement,  the  taking  up  of  a  new 
position  to  renew  the  attack,  it  may  be,  more  vigor- 
ously than  ever.  It  is  not  always  easy  to  give  rea- 
sons. There  are  reasons  within  reasons,  and  often 
no  reasons  at  all  that  we  are  aware  of. 

To  a  countryman  like  myself,  not  born  to  a  great 
river  or  an  extensive  water- view,  these  things,  I  think, 
grow  wearisome  after  a  time.  He  becomes  surfeited 
with  a  beauty  that  is  alien  to  him.  He  longs  for  some- 
thing more  homely,  private,  and  secluded.  Scenery 
may  be  too  fine  or  too  grand  and  imposing  for  one's 
daily  and  hourly  view.  It  tires  after  a  while.  It  de- 
mands a  mood  that  comes  to  you  only  at  intervals. 
Hence  it  is  never  wise  to  build  your  house  on  the 
most  ambitious  spot  in  the  landscape.  Rather  seek 
out  a  more  humble  and  secluded  nook  or  corner, 
which  you  can  fill  and  warm  with  your  domestic  and 
home  instincts  and  affections.  In  some  things  the 
half  is  often  more  satisfying  than  the  whole.     A 

131 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

glimpse  of  the  Hudson  River  between  hills  or 
through  openings  in  the  trees  wears  better  with  me 
than  a  long  expanse  of  it  constantly  spread  out  be- 
fore me.  One  day  I  had  an  errand  to  a  farmhouse 
nestled  in  a  little  valley  or  basin  at  the  foot  of  a  moun- 
tain. The  earth  put  out  protecting  arms  all  about  it, 
—  a  low  hill  with  an  orchard  on  one  side,  a  sloping 
pasture  on  another,  and  the  mountain,  with  the 
skirts  of  its  mantling  forests,  close  at  hand  in  the 
rear.  How  my  heart  warmed  toward  it !  I  had  been 
so  long  perched  high  upon  the  banks  of  a  great  river, 
in  sight  of  all  the  world,  exposed  to  every  wind  that 
blows,  with  a  horizon-line  that  sweeps  over  half  a 
county,  that,  quite  unconsciously  to  myself,  I  was 
pining  for  a  nook  to  sit  down  in.  I  was  hungry  for 
the  private  and  the  circumscribed;  I  knew  it  when 
I  saw  this  sheltered  farmstead.  I  had  long  been  rest- 
less and  dissatisfied,  —  a  vague  kind  of  homesick- 
ness; now  I  knew  the  remedy.  Hence  when,  not 
long  afterward,  I  was  offered  a  tract  of  wild  land, 
barely  a  mile  from  home,  that  contained  a  secluded 
nook  and  a  few  acres  of  level,  fertile  land  shut  off 
from  the  vain  and  noisy  world  of  railroads,  steam- 
boats, and  yachts  by  a  wooded,  precipitous  moun- 
tain, I  (piickly  closed  the  bargain,  and  built  me  a 
rustic  house  there,  which  I  call  "  Slabsides,"  because 
its  outer  walls  are  covered  with  slabs.  I  might  have 
given  it  a  prettier  name,  but  not  one  more  fit,  or  more 
in  keeping  with  the  mood  that  brought  me  thither 

132 


WILD  LIFE  ABOUT  MY  CABIN 

A  slab  is  the  first  cut  from  the  log,  and  the  bark  goes 
with  it.  It  is  like  the  first  cut  from  the  loaf,  which 
we  call  the  crust,  and  which  the  children  reject,  but 
which  we  older  ones  often  prefer.  I  wanted  to  take  a 
fresh  cut  of  life, — something  that  had  the  bark  on, 
or,  if  you  please,  that  was  like  a  well-browned  and 
hardened  crust.  After  three  years  I  am  satisfied  with 
the  experiment.  Life  has  a  different  flavor  here.  It 
is  reduced  to  simpler  terms;  its  complex  equations 
all  disappear.  The  exact  value  of  x  may  still  elude 
me,  but  I  can  press  it  hard  ;  I  have  shorn  it  of 
many  of  its  disguises  and  entanglements. 

When  I  went  into  the  woods  the  robins  went  with 
me,  or  rather  they  followed  close.  As  soon  as  a  space 
of  ground  was  cleared  and  the  garden  planted,  they 
were  on  hand  to  pick  up  the  worms  and  insects,  and 
to  superintend  the  planting  of  the  cherry-trees :  three 
pairs  the  first  summer,  and  more  than  double  that 
number  the  second.  In  the  third,  their  early  morn- 
ing chorus  was  almost  as  marked  a  feature  as  it  is 
about  the  old  farm  homesteads.  The  robin  is  no  her- 
mit :  he  likes  company ;  he  likes  the  busy  scenes  of 
the  farm  and  the  village;  he  likes  to  carol  to  listen- 
ing ears,  and  to  build  his  nest  as  near  your  dwelling 
as  he  can.  Only  at  rare  intervals  do  I  find  a  real 
sylvan  robin,  one  that  nests  in  the  woods,  usually  by 
still  waters,  remote  from  human  habitation.  In  such 
places  his  morning  and  evening  carol  is  a  welcome 
surprise  to  the  fisherman  or  camper-out.   It  is  like  a 

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FAR   AND    NEAR 

doon-ard  flower  found  blooming  in  the  wilderness. 
AVitli  the  robins  came  the  song  sparrows  and  social 
sparrows,  or  chippies,  also.  The  latter  nested  in  the 
bushes  near  my  cabin,  and  the  song  sparrows  in  the 
bank  above  the  ditch  that  drains  my  land.  I  notice 
that  Chippy  finds  just  as  many  horsehairs  to  weave 
into  her  nest  here  in  my  horseless  domain  as  she  does 
when  she  builds  in  the  open  country.  Her  partiality 
for  the  long  hairs  from  the  manes  and  tails  of  horses 
and  cattle  is  so  great  that  she  is  often  known  as  the 
hair-bird.  What  would  she  do  in  a  country  where 
there  were  neither  cows  nor  horses  ?  Yet  these  hairs 
are  not  good  nesting-material.  They  are  slippery, 
refractory  things,  and  occasionally  cause  a  tragedy  in 
the  nest  by  getting  looped  around  the  legs  or  the 
neck  of  the  young  or  of  the  parent  bird.  They  prob« 
ably  give  a  smooth  finish  to  the  interior,  dear  to  the 
heart  of  Chippy. 

The  first  year  of  my  cabin  life  a  pair  of  robins  at- 
tempted to  build  a  nest  upon  the  round  timber  that 
forms  the  plate  under  my  porch  roof.  But  it  was  a 
poor  place  to  build  in.  It  took  nearly  a  week's  time 
and  caused  the  birds  a  great  waste  of  labor  to  find 
this  out.  The  coarse  material  they  brought  for  the 
foundation  would  not  bed  well  upon  the  rounded 
surface  of  the  timber,  and  every  vagrant  breeze  that 
came  along  swept  it  off.  My  porch  was  kept  littered 
with  twigs  and  weed-stalks  for  days,  till  finally  the 
birds  abandoned  the  undertaking.   The  next  season 

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WILD    LIFE   ABOUT   MY   CABIN 

a  wiser  or  more  experienced  pair  made  the  attempt 
again,  and  succeeded.  They  placed  the  nest  against 
the  rafter  where  it  joins  the  plate;  they  used  mud 
from  the  start  to  level  up  with  and  to  hold  the  first 
twigs  and  straws,  and  had  soon  completed  a  firm, 
shapely  structure.  When  the  young  were  about 
ready  to  fly,  it  was  interesting  to  note  that  there 
was  apparently  an  older  and  a  younger,  as  in  most 
families.  One  bird  was  more  advanced  than  any  of 
the  others.  Had  the  parent  birds  intentionally  stim- 
ulated it  with  extra  quantities  of  food,  so  as  to  be 
able  to  launch  their  offspring  into  the  world  one 
at  a  time  ?  At  any  rate,  one  of  the  birds  was  ready 
to  leave  the  nest  a  day  and  a  half  before  any  of  the 
others.  I  happened  to  be  looking  at  it  when  the  first 
impulse  to  get  outside  the  nest  seemed  to  seize  it.  Its 
parents  were  encouraging  it  with  calls  and  assur- 
ances from  some  rocks  a  few  yards  away.  It  an- 
swered their  calls  in  vigorous,  strident  tones.  Then 
it  chmbed  over  the  edge  of  the  nest  upon  the  plate, 
took  a  few  steps  forward,  then  a  few  more,  till  it  was 
a  yard  from  the  nest  and  near  the  end  of  the  tim- 
ber, and  could  look  off  into  free  space.  Its  parents 
apparently  shouted,  "Come  on!"  But  its  courage 
was  not  quite  equal  to  the  leap;  it  looked  around, 
and  seeing  how  far  it  was  from  home,  scampered 
back  to  the  nest,  and  climbed  into  it  like  a  fright- 
ened child.  It  had  made  its  first  journey  into  the 
world,  but  the  home  tie  had  brought  it  quickly  back. 

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FAR    AND    NEAR 

A  few  hours  afterward  it  journeyed  to  the  end  of  the 
plate  again,  and  tlien  turned  and  rushed  back.  The 
third  time  its  heart  was  braver,  its  wings  stronger, 
and  leaping  into  the  air  with  a  shout,  it  flew  easily 
to  some  rocks  a  dozen  or  more  yards  away.  Each  of 
the  young  in  succession,  at  intervals  of  nearly  a  day, 
left  the  nest  in  this  manner.  There  would  be  the 
first  journey  of  a  few  feet  along  the  plate,  the  first 
sudden  panic  at  being  so  far  from  home,  the  rush 
back,  a  second  and  perhaps  a  third  attempt,  and 
then  the  irrevocable  leap  into  the  air,  and  a  clamor- 
ous flight  to  a  near-by  bush  or  rock.  Young  birds 
never  go  back  when  they  have  once  taken  flight. 
The  first  free  flap  of  the  wing  severs  forever  the  ties 
that  bind  them  to  home. 

The  chickadees  we  have  always  with  us.  They 
are  like  the  evergreens  among  the  trees  and  plants. 
Winter  has  no  terrors  for  them.  They  are  properly 
wood-birds,  but  the  groves  and  orchards  know 
them  also.  Did  they  come  near  my  cabin  for  better 
protection,  or  did  they  chance  to  find  a  little  cavity 
in  a  tree  there  that  suited  them  ?  Branch-builders 
and  ground-builders  are  easily  accommodated,  but 
the  chickadee  must  find  a  cavity,  and  a  small  one  at 
that.  The  woodpeckers  make  a  cavity  when  a  suit- 
able trunk  or  branch  is  found,  but  the  chickadee, 
with  its  small,  sharp  beak,  rarely  does  so;  it  usually 
smooths  and  deepens  one  already  formed.  This  a 
pair  did  a  few  yards  from  my  cabin.    The  opening 

136 


WILD    LIFE    ABOUT   MY  CABIN 

was  into  the  heart  of  a  Httle  sassafras,  about  four 
feet  from  the  ground.  Day  after  day  the  birds 
took  turns  in  deepening  and  enlarging  the  cavity: 
a  soft,  gentle  hammering  for  a  few  moments  in  the 
heart  of  the  little  tree,  and  then  the  appearance  of 
the  worker  at  the  opening,  with  the  chips  in  his, 
or  her,  beak.  They  changed  off  every  little  while, 
one  working  while  the  other  gathered  food.  Abso- 
lute equality  of  the  sexes,  both  in  plumage  and 
in  duties,  seems  to  prevail  among  these  birds,  as 
among  a  few  other  species.  During  the  preparations 
for  housekeeping  the  birds  were  hourly  seen  and 
heard,  but  as  soon  as  the  first  egg  was  laid,  all  this  "^ 
was  changed.  They  suddenly  became  very  shy  and 
quiet.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  new  egg  that  was 
added  each  day,  one  would  have  concluded  that 
they  had  abandoned  the  place.  There  was  a  pre- 
cious secret  now  that  must  be  well  kept.  After  incu- 
bation began,  it  was  only  by  watching  that  I  could 
get  a  glimpse  of  one  of  the  birds  as  it  came  quickly 
to  feed  or  to  relieve  the  other. 

One  day  a  lot  of  Vassar  girls  came  to  visit  me,  and 
I  led  them  out  to  the  little  sassafras  to  see  the  chick- 
adees' nest.  The  sitting  bird  kept  her  place  as  head 
after  head,  with  its  nodding  plumes  and  millinery, 
appeared  above  the  opening  to  her  chamber,  and  a 
pair  of  inquisitive  eyes  peered  down  upon  her.  But  I 
saw  that  she  was  getting  ready  to  play  her  little  trick 
to  frighten  them  away.    Presently  I  heard  a  faint 

137 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

explosion  at  the  bottom  of  the  cavity,  when  the  peep- 
\ng  girl  jerked  her  head  quickly  back,  with  the  ex- 
damation,  "Why,  it  spit  at  me!"  The  trick  of  the 
bird  on  such  occasions  is  apparently  to  draw  in  its 
breath  till  its  form  perceptibly  swells,  and  then  give 
forth  a  quick,  explosive  sound  like  an  escaping  jet  of 
steam.  One  involunlarily  closes  his  eyes  and  jerks 
back  his  head.  The  girls,  to  their  great  amusement, 
provoked  the  bird  into  this  pretty  outburst  of  her 
impatience  two  or  three  times.  But  as  the  ruse  failed 
of  its  effect,  the  bird  did  not  keep  it  up,  but  let  the 
laughing  faces  gaze  till  they  were  satisfied. 

There  is  only  one  other  bird  known  to  me  that 
resorts  to  the  same  trick  to  scare  away  intruders, 
and  that  is  the  great  crested  flycatcher.  As  your 
head  appears  before  the  entrance  to  the  cavity  in 
which  the  mother  bird  is  sitting,  a  sudden  burst  of 
escaping  steam  seems  directed  at  your  face,  and 
your  backward  movement  leaves  the  way  open  for 
the  bird  to  escape,  which  she  quickly  does. 

The  chickadee  is  a  prolific  bird,  laying  from  six 
to  eight  eggs,  and  it  seems  to  have  few  natural 
enemies.  I  think  it  is  seldom  molested  by  squirrels 
or  black  snakes  or  weasels  or  crows  or  owls.  The 
entrance  to  the  nest  is  usually  so  small  that  none  of 
these  creatures  can  come  at  them.  Yet  the  number 
of  chickadees  in  any  given  territory  seems  small. 
What  keeps  them  in  check  ?  Probably  the  rigors  of 
winter  and  a  limited  food-supply.    The  ant-eaters, 

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WILD    LIFE    ABOUT   MY    CABIN 

fruit-eaters,  and  seed-eaters  mostly  migrate.  Our 
all-the-year-round  birds,  like  the  chickadees,  wood- 
peckers, jays,  and  nuthatches,  live  mostly  on  nuts 
and  the  eggs  and  larvae  of  tree-insects,  and  hence 
their  larder  is  a  restricted  one;  hence,  also,  thes^ 
birds  rear  only  one  brood  in  a  season.  A  hairy  wood- 
pecker passed  the  winter  in  the  woods  near  me  by 
subsisting  on  a  certain  small  white  grub  which  he 
found  in  the  bark  of  some  dead  hemlock-trees.  He 
"  worked "  these  trees,  —  four  of  them,  —  as  the 
slang  is,  "  for  all  they  were  worth."  The  grub  was 
under  the  outer  shell  of  bark,  and  the  bird  literally 
skinned  the  trees  in  getting  at  his  favorite  morsel. 
He  worked  from  the  top  downward,  hammering  or 
prying  off  this  shell,  and  leaving  the  trunk  of  the  tree 
with  a  red,  denuded  look.  Bushels  of  the  frag- 
ments of  the  bark  covered  the  ground  at  the  foot  of 
the  tree  in  spring,  and  the  trunk  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  flayed,  —  as  it  had. 

The  big  chimney  of  my  cabin  of  course  attracted 
the  chimney  swifts,  and  as  it  was  not  used  in  sum- 
mer, two  pairs  built  their  nests  in  it,  and  we  had 
the  muflled  thunder  of  their  wings  at  all  hours 
of  the  day  and  night.  One  night,  when  one  of  the 
broods  was  nearly  fledged,  the  nest  that  held  them 
fell  down  into  the  fireplace.  Such  a  din  of  screeching 
and  chattering  as  they  instantly  set  up !  Neither  my 
dog  nor  I  could  sleep.  They  yelled  in  chorus,  stop- 
ping at  the  end  of  every  half-minute  as  if  upon  sig' 

139 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

nal.  Now  they  were  all  screeching  at  the  top  of  their 
voices,  then  a  sudden,  dead  silence  ensued.  Then  the 
din  began  again,  to  terminate  at  the  instant  as  be- 
fore. If  they  had  been  long  practicing  together,  they 
could  not  have  succeeded  better.  I  never  before 
heard  the  cry  of  birds  so  accurately  timed.  After  a 
while  I  got  up  and  put  them  back  up  the  chimney, 
and  stopped  up  the  throat  of  the  flue  with  news- 
papers. The  next  day  one  of  the  parent  birds,  in 
bringing  food  to  them,  came  down  the  chimney  with 
such  force  that  it  passed  through  the  papers  and 
brought  up  in  the  fireplace.  On  capturing  it  I  saw 
that  its  throat  was  distended  with  food  as  a  chip- 
munk's cheek  with  corn,  or  a  boy's  pocket  with 
chestnuts.  I  opened  its  mandibles,  when  it  ejected  a 
wad  of  insects  as  large  as  a  bean.  Most  of  them  were 
much  macerated,  but  there  were  two  house-flies  yet 
alive  and  but  little  the  worse  for  their  close  confine- 
ment. They  stretched  themselves,  and  walked  about 
upon  my  hand,  enjoying  a  breath  of  fresh  air  once 
more.  It  was  nearly  two  hours  before  the  swift  again 
ventured  into  the  chimney  with  food. 

These  birds  do  not  perch,  nor  alight  upon  buildings 
or  the  ground.  They  are  apparently  upon  the  wing 
all  day.  They  outride  the  storms.  I  have  in  my 
mind  a  cheering  picture  of  three  of  them  I  saw  facing 
a  heavy  thunder-shower  one  afternoon.  The  wind 
was  blowing  a  gale,  the  clouds  were  rolling  in  black, 
portentous  billows  out  of  the  west,  the  peals  of  thun- 

140 


WILD   LIFE  ABOUT    MY    CABIN 

der  were  shaking  the  heavens,  and  the  big  drops 
were  just  beginning  to  come  down,  when,  on  looking 
up,  I  saw  three  swifts  high  in  air,  working  their  way 
slowly,  straight  into  the  teeth  of  the  storm.  They 
were  not  hurried  or  disturbed ;  they  held  themselves 
firmly  and  steadily  ;  indeed,  they  were  fairly  at 
anchor  in  the  air  till  the  rage  of  the  elements  should 
have  subsided.  I  do  not  know  that  any  other  of  our 
land  birds  outride  the  storms  in  this  way. 

The  phoebe-birds  also  soon  found  me  out  in  my 
retreat,  and  a  pair  of  them  deliberated  a  long  while 
about  building  on  a  little  shelf  in  one  of  my  gables. 
But,  much  to  my  regret,  they  finally  decided  in  favor 
of  a  niche  in  the  face  of  a  ledge  of  rocks  not  far 
from  my  spring.  The  place  was  well  screened  by 
bushes  and  well  guarded  against  the  approach  of 
snakes  or  four-footed  prowlers,  and  the  birds  pros- 
pered well  and  reared  two  broods.  They  have  now 
occupied  the  same  nest  three  years  in  succession. 
This  is  unusual :  Phoebe  prefers  a  new  nest  each  sea- 
son, but  in  this  case  there  is  no  room  for  another^ 
and,  the  site  being  a  choice  one,  she  slightly  repairs 
and  refurnishes  her  nest  each  spring,  leaving  the 
new  houses  for  her  more  ambitious  neighbors. 

Of  wood-warblers  my  territory  affords  many 
specimens.  One  spring  a  solitary  Nashville  warbler 
lingered  near  my  cabin  for  a  week.  I  heard  his 
bright,  ringing  song  at  all  hours  of  the  day.  The 
next  spring  there  were  two  or  more,  and  they  nested 

141 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

in  my  pea-bushes.  The  black  and  white  creeping 
warblers  are  perhaps  the  most  abundant.  A  pair  of 
them  built  a  nest  in  a  steep  moss  and  lichen  cov- 
ered hillside,  beside  a  high  gray  rock.  Our  path 
to  Julian's  Rock  led  just  above  it.  It  was  an  ideal 
spot  and  an  ideal  nest,  but  it  came  to  grief.  Some 
small  creature  sucked  the  eggs.  On  removing  the 
nest  I  found  an  earth-stained  egg  beneath  it.  Evi- 
dently the  egg  had  ripened  before  its  receptacle  was 
ready,  and  the  mother,  for  good  luck,  had  placed 
it  in  the  foundation. 

One  day,  as  I  sat  at  my  table  writing,  I  had  a 
call  from  the  worm-eating  warbler.  It  came  into  the 
open  door,  flitted  about  inquisitively,  and  then, 
startled  by  the  apparition  at  the  table,  dashed 
against  the  window-pane  and  fell  down  stunned.  I 
picked  it  up,  and  it  lay  with  closed  eyes  panting  in 
my  hand.  I  carried  it  into  the  open  air.  In  a  mo- 
ment or  two  it  opened  its  eyes,  looked  about,  and 
then  closed  them  and  fell  to  panting  again.  Soon  it 
looked  up  at  me  once  more  and  about  the  room,  and 
seemed  to  say:  *'  Where  am  I  ?  What  has  happened 
to  me  ?  "  Presently  the  panting  ceased,  the  bird's 
breathing  became  more  normal,  it  gradually  got  its 
bearings,  and,  at  a  motion  of  my  hand,  darted  away. 
This  is  an  abundant  warbler  in  my  vicinity,  and 
nested  this  year  near  by.  I  have  discovered  that  it 
has  an  air-song  —  the  song  of  ecstasy  —  like  that 
of  the  oven-bird.    I  had  long  suspected  it,  as  I  fre- 

142 


WILD    LIFE   ABOUT   MY    CABIN 

quently  heard  a  fine  burst  of  melody  that  was  new 
to  me.  One  June  day  I  was  fortunate  enough  to 
see  the  bird  dehvering  its  song  in  the  air  above  the 
low  trees.  As  with  the  oven-bird,  its  favorite  hour 
is  the  early  twilight,  though  I  hear  the  song  occa- 
sionally at  other  hours.  The  bird  darts  upward  fifty 
feet  or  more,  about  half  the  height  that  the  oven- 
bird  attains,  and  gives  forth  a  series  of  rapid,  ring- 
ing musical  notes,  which  quickly  glide  into  the  long, 
sparrow-like  trill  that  forms  its  ordinary  workaday 
song.  While  this  part  is  being  uttered,  the  singer  is 
on  its  downward  flight  into  the  woods.  The  flight- 
song  of  the  oven-bird  is  louder  and  more  striking, 
and  is  not  so  shy  and  furtive  a  performance.  The 
latter  I  hear  many  times  every  June  twilight,  and  I 
frequently  see  the  singer  reach  his  climax  a  hundred 
feet  or  more  in  the  air,  and  then  mark  his  arrow-like 
flight  downward.  I  have  heard  this  song  also  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  near  my  cabin.  At  such  times  it 
stands  out  on  the  stillness  like  a  bursting  rocket  on 
the  background  of  the  night. 

One  or  two  mornings  in  April,  at  a  very  early 
hour,  I  am  quite  sure  to  hear  the  hermit  thrush 
singing  in  the  bushes  near  my  window.  How 
quickly  I  am  transported  to  the  Delectable  Moun- 
tains and  to  the  mossy  solitudes  of  the  northern 
woods!  The  winter  wren  also  pauses  briefly  in  his 
northern  journey,  and  surprises  and  delights  my 
ear  with  his  sudden  lyrical  burst  of  melody.   Such 

143 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

a  dapper,  fidgety,  gesticulating,  bobbing-up-and- 
down-and-out-and-in  little  bird,  and  yet  full  of  such 
sweet,  wild  melody!  To  get  him  at  his  best,  one 
needs  to  hear  him  in  a  dim,  northern  hemlock 
wood,  where  his  voice  reverberates  as  in  a  great  hall; 
just  as  one  should  hear  the  veery  in  a  beech  and 
birch  wood,  beside  a  purling  trout  brook,  when  the 
evening  shades  are  falling.  It  then  becomes  to  you 
the  voice  of  some  particular  spirit  of  the  place  and 
the  hour.  The  veery  does  not  inhabit  the  woods  im- 
mediately about  my  cabin,  but  in  the  summer  twi- 
light he  frequently  comes  up  from  the  valley  below 
and  sings  along  the  borders  of  my  territory.  How 
w^elcome  his  simple  flute-like  strain!  The  wood 
thrush  is  the  leading  chorister  in  the  woods  about  me. 
He  does  not  voice  the  wildness,  but  seems  to  give  a 
touch  of  something  half  rural,  half  urban,  —  such  is 
the  power  of  association  in  bird-songs.  In  the  even- 
ing twilight  I  often  sit  on  the  highest  point  of  the 
rocky  rim  of  the  great  granite  bowl  that  holds  my 
three  acres  of  prairie  soil,  and  see  the  shadows 
deepen,  and  listen  to  the  bird  voices  that  rise  up 
from  the  forest  below  me.  The  songs  of  many  wood 
thrushes  make  a  sort  of  golden  warp  in  the  texture  of 
sounds  that  is  being  woven  about  me.  Now  the 
flight-song  of  the  oven-bird  holds  the  ear,  then  the 
fainter  one  of  the  worm-eating  warbler  lures  it.  The 
carol  of  the  robin,  the  vesper  hymn  of  the  tanager, 
the  flute  of  the  veery,  are  all  on  the  air.    Finally,  as 

144 


WILD    LIFE    ABOUT    MY   CABIN 

the  shadows  deepen  and  the  stars  begin  to  come  out, 
the  whip-poor-will  suddenly  strikes  up.  What  a  rude 
intrusion  upon  the  serenity  and  harmony  of  the 
hour!  A  cry  without  music,  insistent,  reiterated, 
loud,  penetrating,  and  yet  the  ear  welcomes  it  also; 
the  night  and  the  solitude  are  so  vast  that  they  can 
stand  it;  and  when,  an  hour  later,  as  the  night  enters 
into  full  possession,  the  bird  comes  and  serenades 
me  under  my  window  or  upon  my  doorstep,  my 
heart  warms  toward  it.  Its  cry  is  a  love-call,  and 
there  is  something  of  the  ardor  and  persistence 
of  love  in  it,  and  when  the  female  responds,  and 
comes  and  hovers  near,  there  is  an  interchange  of 
subdued,  caressing  tones  between  the  two  birds  that 
it  is  a  delight  to  hear.  During  my  first  summer  here 
one  bird  used  to  strike  up  every  night  from  a  high 
ledge  of  rocks  in  front  of  my  door.  At  just  such  a 
moment  in  the  twilight  he  would  begin,  the  first  to 
break  the  stillness.  Then  the  others  would  follow, 
till  the  solitude  was  vocal  with  their  calls.  They  are 
rarely  heard  later  than  ten  o'clock.  Then  at  day- 
break they  take  up  the  tale  again,  whipping  poor 
Will  till  one  pities  him.  One  April  morning  between 
three  and  four  o'clock,  hearing  one  strike  up  near 
my  window,  I  began  counting  its  calls.  My  neigh- 
bor had  told  me  he  had  heard  one  call  over  two  hun- 
dred times  without  a  break,  which  seemed  to  me  a 
big  story.  But  I  have  a  much  bigger  one  to  tell. 
This  bird  actually  laid  upon  the  back  of  poor  Will 

145 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

one  thousand  and  eighty-ei^^ht  blows,  with  only  a 
barely  perceptible  pause  here  and  there,  as  if  to 
catch  its  breath.  Then  it  stopped  about  half  a  min- 
ute and  began  again,  uttering  this  time  three  hun- 
dred and  ninety  calls,  when  it  paused,  flew  a  little 
farther  away,  took  up  the  tale  once  more,  and  con- 
tinued till  I  fell  asleep. 

By  day  the  whip-poor-will  apparently  sits  motion- 
less upon  the  ground.  A  few  times  in  my  walks 
through  the  woods  I  have  started  one  up  from 
almost  under  my  feet.  On  such  occasions  the  bird's 
movements  suggest  those  of  a  bat;  its  wings  make 
no  noise,  and  it  wavers  about  in  an  uncertain 
manner,  and  quickly  drops  to  the  ground  again. 
One  June  day  we  flushed  an  old  one  with  her  two 
young,  but  there  was  no  indecision  or  hesitation  in 
the  manner  of  the  mother  bird  this  time.  The  young 
w^ere  more  than  half  fledged,  and  they  scampered 
away  a  few  yards  and  suddenly  squatted  upon  the 
ground,  where  their  protective  coloring  rendered 
them  almost  invisible.  Then  the  anxious  parent  put 
forth  all  her  arts  to  absorb  our  attention  and  lure 
us  away  from  her  off'spring.  She  flitted  before  u.s 
from  side  to  side,  with  spread  wings  and  tail,  now 
falling  upon  the  ground,  where  she  would  remain  a 
moment  as  if  quite  disabled,  then  perching  upon  an 
old  stump  or  low  branch  with  drooping,  quivering 
wings,  and  imploring  us  by  every  gesture  to  take  her 
and  spare  her  young.  My  companion  had  his  camera 

146 


WILD    LIFE   ABOUT   MY    CABIN 

with  him,  but  the  bird  would  not  remain  long 
enough  in  one  position  for  him  to  get  her  picture. 
The  whip-poor-will  builds  no  nest,  l)ut  lays  her  two 
blunt,  speckled  eggs  upon  the  dry  leaves,  where  the 
plumage  of  the  sitting  bird  blends  perfectly  with  her 
surroundings.  The  eye,  only  a  few  feet  away,  has  to 
search  long  and  carefully  to  make  her  out.  Every 
gray  and  brown  and  black  tint  of  dry  leaf  and  lichen, 
aixd  bit  of  bark  or  broken  twig,  is  copied  in  her  plum- 
age. In  a  day  or  two,  after  the  young  are  hatched, 
the  mother  begins  to  move  about  with  them  through 
the  woods. 

When  I  want  the  wild  of  a  little  different  flavor 
and  quality  from  that  immediately  about  my  cabin, 
I  go  a  mile  through  the  woods  to  Black  Creek,  here 
called  the  Shattega,  and  put  my  canoe  into  a  long, 
smooth,  silent  stretch  of  water  that  winds  through  a 
heavily  timbered  marsh  till  it  leads  into  Black  Pond, 
an  oval  sheet  of  water  half  a  mile  or  more  across. 
Here  I  get  the  moist,  spongy,  tranquil,  luxurious 
side  of  Nature.  Here  she  stands  or  sits  knee-deep  in 
water,  and  wreathes  herself  with  pond-lilies  in  sum- 
mer, and  bedecks  herself  with  scarlet  maples  in 
autumn.  She  is  an  Indian  maiden,  dark,  subtle, 
dreaming,  with  glances  now  and  then  that  thrill 
the  wild  blood  in  one's  veins.  The  Shattega  here  is  a 
stream  without  banks  and  with  a  just  perceptible 
current.  It  is  a  waterway  through  a  timbered  marsh. 
The  level  floor  of  the  woods  ends  in  an  irregular  line 

147 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

where  the  level  surface  of  the  water  begins.    As  oii« 
glides  along  in  his  boat,  he  sees  various  rank  acjua- 
tic  growths  slowly  waving  in  the  shadowy  depths 
beneath  him.    The  larger  trees  on  each  side  unite 
their  branches  above  his  head,  so  that  at  times  he 
seems  to  be  entering  an  arboreal  cave  out  of  which 
glides  the  stream.     In  the  more  open  places  the 
woods  mirror  themselves  in  the  glassy  surface  till 
one  seems  floating  between  two  worlds,  clouds  and 
sky  and  trees  below  him  matching  those  around  and 
above  him.  A  bird  flits  from  shore  to  shore,  and  one 
sees  it  duplicated  against  the  sky  in  the  under-world. 
What  vistas  open !  What  banks  of  drooping  foliage, 
what  grain  and  arch  of  gnarled  branches,  lure  the 
eve  as  one  drifts  or  silently  paddles  along!     The 
stream  has  absorbed  the  shadows  so  long  that  it  is 
itself  like  a  liquid  shadow.  Its  bed  is  lined  with  vari- 
ous dark  vegetable  growths,  as  with  the  skin  of 
some  huge,  shaggy  animal,  the  fur  of  which  slowly 
stirs  in  the  languid  current.  I  go  here  in  early  spring, 
after  the  ice  has  broken  up,  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
first  wild  ducks  and  to  play  the  sportsman  without  a 
gun.    I  am  sure  I  would  not  exchange  the  quiet  sur- 
prise and  pleasure  I  feel,  as,  on  rounding  some  point 
or  curve  in  the  stream,  two  or  more  ducks  spring 
suddenly  out  from  some  little  cove  or  indentation  in 
the  shore,  and  with  an  alarum  quack,  quack,,  launch 
into  the  air  and  quickly  gain  the  free  spaces  above 
the  treetops,  for  the  satisfaction  of  the  gunner  who 

148 


WILD    LIFE    ABOUT   MY    CABIN 

sees  their  dead  bodies  fall  before  his  murderous  fire. 
He  has  only  a  dead  duck,  which,  the  chances  are,  he 
will  not  find  very  toothsome  at  this  season,  while  I 
have  a  live  duck  with  whistling  wings  cleaving  the 
air  northward,  where,  in  some  lake  or  river  of  Maine 
or  Canada,  in  late  summer,  I  may  meet  him  again 
with  his  brood.  It  is  so  easy,  too,  to  bag  the  game 
with  your  eye,  while  your  gun  may  leave  you  only  a 
feather  or  two  floating  upon  the  water.  The  duck 
has  wit,  and  its  wit  is  as  quick  as,  or  quicker  than,  the 
sportsman's  gun.  One  day  in  spring  I  saw  a  gunner 
cut  down  a  duck  when  it  had  gained  an  altitude  of 
thirty  or  forty  feet  above  the  stream.  At  the  report 
it  stopped  suddenly,  turned  a  somersault,  and  fell 
with  a  splash  into  the  water.  It  fell  like  a  brick,  and 
disappeared  like  one ;  only  a  feather  and  a  few  bub- 
bles marked  the  spot  where  it  struck.  Had  it  sunk  ? 
No;  it  had  dived.  It  was  probably  winged,  and  in 
the  moment  it  occupied  in  falling  to  the  water  it  had 
decided  what  to  do.  It  w^ould  go  beneath  the  hunter, 
since  it  could  not  escape  above  him;  it  could  fly  in 
the  water  with  only  one  wing,  with  its  feet  to  aid  it. 
The  gunner  instantly  set  up  a  diligent  search  in  all 
directions,  up  and  down  along  the  shores,  peering 
long  and  intently  into  the  depths,  thrusting  his  oar 
into  the  weeds  and  driftwood  at  the  edge  of  the  wa- 
ter, but  no  duck  or  sign  of  duck  could  he  find.  It 
was  as  if  the  wounded  bird  had  taken  to  the  mimic 
heaven  that  looked  so  sunny  and  real  down  there, 

149 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

and  fifone  on  to  Canada  by  that  route.  What  aston* 
ished  me  was  that  the  duck  should  have  kept  its  pre- 
sence of  mind  under  such  tryin<^  circumstances,  and 
not  have  lost  a  fraction  of  a  second  of  time  in  decid- 
ing on  a  course  of  action.  The  duck,  I  am  convinced, 
has  more  sagacity  than  any  other  of  our  commoner 
fowl. 

The  day  I  see  the  first  ducks  I  am  pretty  sure  to 
come  upon  the  first  flock  of  blackbirds,  —  ruk^ty 
grackles,  —  resting  awhile  on  their  northward  jour- 
ney amid  the  reeds,  alders,  and  spice-bush  beside 
the  stream.  They  allow  me  to  approach  till  I  can  see 
their  yellow  eyes  and  the  brilliant  iris  on  the  necks 
and  heads  of  the  males.  Many  of  them  are  vocal,  and 
their  united  voices  make  a  volume  of  sound  that  is 
analogous  to  a  bundle  of  slivers.  Sputtering,  splinter- 
ing, rasping,  rending,  their  notes  chafe  and  excite  the 
ear.  They  suggest  thorns  and  briers  of  sound,  and 
yet  are  most  welcome.  What  voice  that  rises  from  our 
woods  or  beside  our  waters  in  April  is  not  tempered 
or  attuned  to  the  ear?  Just  as  I  Hke  to  chew  the 
crinkleroot  and  the  twigs  of  the  spice-bush  at  this 
time,  or  at  any  time,  for  that  matter,  so  I  like  to  treat 
my  ear  to  these  more  aspirated  and  astringent  biid 
voices.  Is  it  Thoreau  who  says  they  are  like  pepper 
and  salt  to  this  sense  ?  In  all  the  blackbirds  we  hear 
the  voice  of  April  not  yet  quite  articulate ;  there  is  a 
suggestion  of  catarrh  and  influenza  still  in  the  air- 
passages.    I  should,  perhaps,  except  the  red-shoul- 

150 


WILD    LIFE    ABOUT   MY   CABIN 

dered  starling,  whose  clear  and  liquid  gur-ga-lee  or 
o-ka-lec,  above  the  full  water-courses,  makes  a  differ- 
ent impression.  The  cowbird  also  has  a  clear  note, 
but  it  seems  to  be  wrenched  or  pumped  up  with 
much  effort. 

In  May  I  go  to  Black  Creek  to  hear  the  warblers 
and  the  water-thrushes.  It  is  the  only  locality  where 
I  have  ever  heard  the  two  water-thrushes,  or  accen- 
tors, singing  at  the  same  time, — the  New  York  and 
the  large-billed.  The  latter  is  much  more  abundant 
and  much  the  finer  songster.  How  he  does  make 
these  watery  solitudes  ring  with  his  sudden,  brilliant 
burst  of  song !  But  the  more  northern  species  pleases 
the  ear  also  with  his  quieter  and  less  hurried  strain. 
I  drift  in  my  boat  and  let  the  ear  attend  to  the  one, 
then  to  the  other,  while  the  eye  takes  note  of  their 
quick,  nervous  movements  and  darting  flight.  The 
smaller  species  probably  does  not  nest  along  this 
stream,  but  the  large-billed  breeds  here  abundantly. 
The  last  nest  I  found  was  in  the  roots  of  an  up- 
turned tree,  with  the  water  immediately  beneath  it. 
I  had  asked  a  neighboring  farm-boy  if  he  knew  of 
any  birds'  nests. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  ;  and  he  named  over  the  nests  of 
robins,  highholes,  sparrows,  and  others,  and  then 
that  of  a  "  tip-up." 

At  this  last  I  pricked  up  my  ears,  so  to  speaks 
I  had  not  seen  a  tip-up's  nest  in  many  a  day. 
**  Where  ?  "  I  inquired. 

151 


FAR   AND    NEAR 


tt 


In  the  roots  of  a  tree  in  the  woods,"  said  Charley. 
Not  the  nest  of  the  *  tip-up,'  or  sandpiper,"  said 
I.  "  It  builds  on  the  ground  in  the  open  country  near 
streams." 

"Anyhow,  it  tipped,"  replied  the  boy. 

He  directed  me  to  the  spot,  and  I  found,  as  I  ex- 
pected to  find,  the  nest  of  the  water-thrush.  When 
ythe  Vassar  girls  came  again,  I  conducted  them  to  the 
spot,  and  they  took  turns  in  walking  a  small  tree 
trunk  above  the  w  ater,  and  gazing  upon  a  nest  brim- 
ming with  the  downy  backs  of  young  birds. 

When  I  am  listening  to  the  water-thrushes,  I 
am  also  noting  with  both  eye  and  ear  the  warblers 
and  vireos.  There  comes  a  week  in  May  when  the 
speckled  Canada  warblers  are  in  the  ascendant. 
They  feed  in  the  low  bushes  near  the  water's  edge, 
and  are  very  brisk  and  animated  in  voice  and  move- 
ment. The  eye  easily  notes  their  slate-blue  backs 
and  yellow  breasts  with  their  broad  band  of  black 
spots,  and  the  ear  quickly  discriminates  their  not 
less  marked  and  emphatic  song. 

In  late  summer  I  go  to  the  Shattega,  and  to  the 
lake  out  of  which  it  flows,  for  white  pond-lilies,  and 
to  feast  my  eye  on  the  masses  of  purple  loosestrife 
and  the  more  brilliant  but  more  hidden  and  retired 
cardinal-flower  that  bloom  upon  its  banks.  One  can- 
not praise  the  pond-lily;  his  best  words  mar  it,  like 
the  insects  that  eat  its  petals:  but  he  can  contem- 
plate it  as  it  opens  in  the  morning  sun  and  distills 

152 


WILD    LIFE    ABOUT    MY    CABIN 

such  perfume,  such  purity,  such  snow  of  petal  and 
such  gold  of  anther,  from  the  dark  water  and  still 
darker  ooze.  How  feminine  it  seems  beside  its 
coarser  and  more  robust  congeners  ;  how  shy,  how 
pliant,  how  fine  in  texture  and  star-like  in  form ! 

The  loosestrife  is  a  foreign  plant,  but  it  has  made 
itself  thoroughly  at  home  here,  and  its  masses  of 
royal  purple  make  the  woods  look  civil  and  festive. 
The  cardinal  burns  with  a  more  intense  fire,  and 
fairly  lights  up  the  little  dark  nooks  where  it  glasses 
itself  in  the  still  water.  One  must  pause  and  look 
at  it.  Its  intensity,  its  pure  scarlet,  the  dark  back- 
ground upon  which  it  is  projected,  its  image  in  the 
still  darker  water,  and  its  general  air  of  retirement 
and  seclusion,  all  arrest  and  delight  the  eye.  It  is  a 
heart-throb  of  color  on  the  bosom  of  the  dark  soli- 
tude. 

The  rarest  and  wildest  animal  that  my  neighbor- 
hood boasts  of  is  the  otter.  Every  winter  we  see  the 
tracks  of  one  or  more  of  them  upon  the  snow  along 
Black  Creek.  But  the  eye  that  has  seen  the  animal 
itself  in  recent  years  I  cannot  find.  It  probably 
makes  its  excursions  along  the  creek  by  night.  Fol- 
low its  track  —  as  large  as  that  of  a  fair-sized  dog  — 
over  the  ice,  and  you  will  find  that  it  ends  at  every 
open  pool  and  rapid,  and  begins  again  upon  the  ice 
beyond.  Sometimes  it  makes  little  excursions  up  the 
bank,  its  body  often  dragging  in  the  snow  like  a  log. 
My  son  followed  the  track  one  day  far  up  the  moun- 

153 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

tain-side,  where  the  absence  of  the  snow  caused  him 
to  lose  it.  I  Hke  to  think  of  so  wild  and  shy  a  crea- 
ture hokUng  its  own  within  sound  of  the  locomo- 
tive's whistle. 

The  fox  passes  my  door  in  winter,  and  probably 
in  summer  too,  as  do  also  the  'possum  and  the  coon. 
The  latter  tears  down  my  sweet  corn  in  the  garden, 
and  the  rabbit  eats  off  my  raspberry-bushes  and  nib- 
bles my  first  strawberries,  while  the  woodchucks  eat 
my  celery  and  beans  and  peas.  Chipmunks  carry 
off  the  corn  I  put  out  for  the  chickens,  and  weasels 
eat  the  chickens  themselves. 

Many  times  during  the  season  I  have  in  my  soli- 
tude a  visit  from  a  bald  eagle.  There  is  a  dead  tree 
near  the  summit,  where  he  often  perches,  and  w  hich 
we  call  the  "  old  eagle-tree."  It  is  a  pine,  killed  years 
ago  by  a  thunderbolt,  —  the  bolt  of  Jove,  —  and 
now  the  bird  of  Jove  hovers  about  it  or  sits  upon  it. 
I  have  little  doubt  that  what  attracted  me  to  this 
spot  attracts  him, — the  seclusion,  the  savageness, 
the  elemental  grandeur.  Sometimes,  as  I  look  out  of 
my  window  early  in  the  morning,  I  see  the  eagle 
upon  his  perch,  preening  his  plumage,  or  waiting  for 
the  rising  sun  to  gild  the  mountain-tops.  When  the 
smoke  begins  to  rise  from  my  chimney,  or  he  sees 
me  going  to  the  spring  for  water,  he  concludes  it  is 
time  for  him  to  be  off.  But  he  need  not  fear  the 
crack  of  the  rifle  here ;  nothing  more  deadly  than 
field-glasses  shall  be  pointed  at  him  while  I  am 

154 


WILD    LIFE    ABOUT   MY    CABIN 

about.  Often  in  the  course  of  the  day  I  see  him 
circling  above  my  domain,  or  winging  his  way 
toward  the  mountains.  His  home  is  apparently  in 
the  Shawangunk  Range,  twenty  or  more  miles  dis- 
tant, and  I  fancy  he  stops  or  lingers  above  me  on  his 
way  to  the  river.  The  days  on  which  I  see  him  are 
not  quite  the  same  as  the  other  days.  I  think  my 
fnoughts  soar  a  little  higher  all  the  rest  of  the  morn- 
ing: I  have  had  a  visit  from  a  messenger  of  Jove. 
The  lift  or  range  of  those  great  wings  has  passed  into 
my  thought.  I  once  heard  a  collector  get  up  in  a 
scientific  body  and  tell  how  many  eggs  of  the  bald 
eagle  he  had  clutched  that  season,  how  many  from 
this  nest,  how  many  from  that,  and  how  one  of 
the  eagles  had  deported  itself  after  he  had  killed 
its  mate.  I  felt  ashamed  for  him.  He  had  only 
proved  himself  a  superior  human  weasel.  The  man 
with  the  rifle  and  the  man  with  the  collector's 
craze  are  fast  reducing  the  number  of  eagles  in  the 
country.  Twenty  years  ago  I  used  to  see  a  dozen  or 
more  along  the  river  in  the  spring  when  the  ice  was 
breaking  up,  where  I  now  see  only  one  or  two,  or 
none  at  all.  In  the  present  case,  what  would  it 
profit  me  could  I  find  and  plunder  my  eagle's  nest, 
or  strip  his  skin  from  his  dead  carcass  ?  Should  I 
know  him  better  ?  I  do  not  want  to  know  him  that 
way.  I  want  rather  to  feel  the  inspiration  of  his 
presence  and  noble  bearing.  I  want  my  interest  and 
sympathy  to  go  with  him  in  his  continental  voyaging 

155 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

up  and  down,  and  in  his  long,  elevated  flights  to  and 
from  his  eyrie  upon  the  remote,  solitary  cliffs.  He 
draws  great  lines  across  the  sky  ;  he  sees  the  forests 
like  a  carpet  beneath  him,  he  sees  the  hills  and  val- 
leys as  folds  and  wrinkles  in  a  many-colored  tapes- 
try ;  he  sees  the  river  as  a  silver  belt  connecting  re- 
mote horizons.  We  climb  mountain-peaks  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  spectacle  that  is  hourly  spread  out 
beneath  him.  Dignity,  elevation,  repose,  are  his.  I 
would  have  my  thoughts  take  as  wide  a  sweep.  I 
would  be  as  far  removed  from  the  petty  cares  and 
turmoils  of  this  noisy  and  blustering  world. 


Ill 

NEW  GLEANINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 


ONE  of  the  good  signs  of  the  times  is  the  inter- 
est our  young  people  are  taking  in  the  birds, 
and  the  numerous  clubs  and  societies  that  are  be- 
ing formed  throughout  the  country  for  bird  pro- 
tection and  bird  study.  In  my  youth  but  little  was 
heard  about  the  birds.  They  were  looked  upon  as 
of  small  account.  Many  of  them  were  treated  as 
the  farmer's  natural  enemies.  Crows  and  all  kinds 
of  hawks  and  owls  were  destroyed  w  henever  chance 
offered.  I  knew  a  farmer  who  every  summer  caught 
and  killed  all  the  red-tailed  hawks  he  could.  He 
stood  up  poles  in  his  meadows,  upon  the  tops  of 
which  he  would  set  steel  traps.  The  hawks,  looking 
for  meadow-mice,  would  alight  upon  them  and  be 
caught.  The  farmer  was  thus  slaying  some  of  his 
best  friends,  as  these  large  hawks  live  almost  en- 
tirely upon  mice  and  other  vermin.  The  redtail,  or 
hen-hawk,  is  very  wary  of  a  man  with  a  gun,  but 
he  has  not  yet  learned  of  the  danger  that  lurks  in  a 
steel  trap  on  the  top  of  a  pole. 

If  a  strict  account  could  be  kept  with  our  crows 

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FAR   AND    NEAR 

and  hawks  for  a  year,  it  would  be  found  at  the  end 
of  that  time  that  most  of  them  had  a  balance  to  their 
credit.  They  do  us  more  good  than  injury.  A  few 
of  them,  such  as  the  fish  crow,  the  sharp-shinned 
hawk,  Cooper's  hawk,  and  the  duck  hawk,  are  de- 
structive to  song-birds  and  wild  fowl ;  but  the  others 
subsist  mainly  upon  insects  and  vermin. 

One  August,  when  I  was  a  boy,  I  remember  a 
great  flight  of  sparrow  hawks,  —  so  called,  I  sup- 
pose, because  they  rarely  if  ever  catch  sparrows. 
They  were  seen  by  the  dozen,  hovering  above  and 
flitting  about  the  meadows.  On  carefully  observing 
them,  I  found  they  were  catching  grasshoppers, — 
the  large,  fat  ones  found  in  the  meadows  in  late 
summer.  They  would  poise  on  the  wing  twenty 
or  thirty  feet  above  the  ground,  after  the  manner 
of  the  larger  hawks  watching  for  mice,  then  sud- 
denly drop  down  and  seize  their  prey,  w^hich  they 
devoured  on  the  limb  of  a  tree  or  a  stake  in  the  fence. 
They  lingered  about  for  several  days  and  then  drifted 
away. 

Nearly  every  season  a  pair  of  broad-winged 
hawks  —  about  a  size  smaller  than  the  hen-hawk  — 
build  their  nest  in  the  woods  not  far  from  my  cabin. 
You  may  know  this  hawk  by  its  shrill,  piercing  cry, 
the  smoothest,  most  ear-piercing  note  I  know  of 
in  the  woods.  They  utter  this  cry  when  you  approach 
their  nest,  and  continue  to  utter  it  as  long  as  you 
linger  about.   One  season  they  built  in  a  large  pine« 

158 


NEW    GLEANINGS    IN    OLD    FIELDS 

tree  near  which  I  frequently  passed  in  my  walk. 
Always,  as  I  came  near,  I  would  hear  this  wild,  shrill 
plaint,  made,  I  think,  by  the  mother  bird.  Often 
she  would  sit  upon  a  branch  in  full  view  and  utter 
her  ear-dividing  protest.  There  were  never  any 
signs  about  the  nest  that  birds  or  poultry  formed 
part  of  the  food  of  the  young.  It  is  said  that  this 
hawk  subsists  principally  upon  insects  and  frogs. 
When  the  young  —  two  of  them  —  were  about  two 
thirds  grown,  they  used  to  perch  upon  the  edge  of 
the  nest  and  upon  one  of  the  branches  that  held  it 
in  place. 

One  day  I  took  a  couple  of  bird  enthusiasts  there 
to  hear  the  cry  of  the  mother  hawk.  We  hngered 
about  for  nearly  an  hour,  and  not  a  sound  was  heard 
nor  a  parent  hawk  seen.  Then  I  tried  to  stir  up 
the  young,  but  without  effect.  They  regarded  us 
intently,  but  made  no  move  and  uttered  no  cry.  A 
smaller  tree  grew  beside  the  pine  that  held  the  nest. 
Up  this  I  climbed  till  within  probably  twenty-five 
feet  of  the  suspicious  young ;  then  I  reached  out  my 
foot  and  planted  it  upon  a  limb  of  the  larger  tree. 
Instantly,  as  if  the  tree  were  a  vital  part  of  them- 
selves, the  young  hawks  took  the  alarm  and  launched 
into  the  air.  But  the  wings  of  one  of  them  could  not 
long  sustain  him,  and  he  came  to  the  ground  within 
twenty  yards  of  the  foot  of  the  tree.  As  we  ap- 
proached him  his  attitude  of  defense  was  striking,  — 
wings  half  spread,  beak  open,  one  foot  raised,  and 

159 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

a  look  of  defiance  in  his  eye.  But  we  soon  reassured 
him,  and  presently  left  him  perched  upon  a  branch 
in  a  much  more  composed  state  of  mind.  The  parent 
hawks  did  not  appear  upon  the  scene  during  our  stay. 

II 

I  do  not  share  the  alarm  expressed  in  some  quar- 
ters over  the  seeming  decrease  in  the  numbers  of  our 
birds.  We  are  always  more  or  less  pessimistic  in 
regard  to  the  present  time  and  present  things.  As  we 
grow  older,  the  number  of  beautiful  things  in  the 
world  seems  to  diminish.  The  Indian  summer  is  not 
what  it  used  to  be;  the  winters  are  not  so  bracing; 
the  spring  is  more  uncertain;  and  honest  men  are 
fewer.  But  there  is  not  much  change,  after  all.  The 
change  is  mainly  in  us.  I  find  no  decrease  in  the  great 
body  of  our  common  field,  orchard,  and  wood  birds, 
though  I  do  not  see  the  cliff  swallows  I  used  to  see  in 
my  youth;  they  go  farther  north,  to  northern  New 
Ensrland  and  Canada.  Our  smart  new  farm  build- 
ings  with  their  dressed  and  painted  clapboards  do  not 
attract  them.  At  Rangeley  Lake,  in  Maine,  I  saw  the 
eaves  of  barns  as  crowded  with  their  mud  nests  as  I 
used  to  see  the  eaves  of  my  father's  barns  amid  the 
Catskills.  In  the  cliffs  along  the  Yukon  in  Alaska 
they  are  said  to  swarm  in  great  numbers.  The  cliffs 
along  the  upper  Columbia  show  thousands  of  their 
nests.  Nearly  all  our  game-birds  are  decreasing  in 
numbers,  because  sportsmen  are  more  and  more 

160 


NEW    GLEANINGS    IN    OLD    FIELDS 

numerous  and  skillful,  and  their  guns  more  and  more 
deadly.  The  bobolinks  are  fewer  than  they  were  a 
decade  or  two  ago,  because  they  are  slaughtered 
more  and  more  in  the  marshes  and  rice-fields  of  the 
South.  The  bluebirds  and  hermit  thrushes  were 
threatened  with  extinction  by  a  cold  wave  and  a 
severe  storm  in  the  Southern  States,  a  few  years  ago. 
These  birds  appear  to  have  perished  by  the  hundred 
thousand.  But  they  have  slowly  recovered  lost 
ground,  and  seem  now  to  be  as  numerous  as  ever. 
I  see  fewer  eagles  along  the  Hudson  River  than  I 
used  to  see  fifteen  years  ago.  The  collectors  and  the 
riflemen  are  no  doubt  responsible  for  this  decrease. 
But  the  robins,  thrushes,  finches,  warblers,  black- 
birds, orioles,  flycatchers,  vireos,  and  woodpeckers 
are  quite  as  abundant  as  they  were  a  quarter  of  a 
century  ago,  if  not  more  so. 

The  English  sparrows,  no  doubt,  tend  to  run  out 
our  native  birds  in  towns  and  smaller  cities,  but  in 
the  country  this  effect  is  not  noticeable.  They  are 
town  birds  anyhow,  and  naturally  take  their  place 
with  a  thousand  other  town  abominations.  A  friend 
of  mine  who  lives  in  the  heart  of  a  city  of  twenty 
thousand  people  amused  me  by  recounting  his  obser- 
vation upon  a  downy  woodpecker  that  had  made  up 
its  mind  to  pass  the  winter  in  town.  In  November  it 
began  to  excavate  a  chamber  for  its  w^inter  quarters  in 
the  dead  branch  of  a  maple  that  stood  on  the  curb  in 
front  of  my  friend's  window.    The  English  sparrows 

161 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

sat  about  upon  the  branches,  regarding  the  proceed- 
ing with  evident  interest,  but  showing  no  incHnation 
to  interfere.  "  Let  him  work,"  they  seemed  to  say; 
"something  interesting  may  come  of  it."  For  two 
weeks  or  more  Downy  was  busy  carving  out  his 
retreat.  At  last  it  was  finished  ;  but  when  he  re- 
turned one  night  he  found  it  occupied,  and  the  occu- 
pant refused  to  vacate  it.  This  seemed  to  puzzle  the 
woodpecker  a  good  deal.  Every  night  he  was  barred 
out  of  his  own  house.  Then  he  took  it  into  his  head 
to  come  home  earlier  in  the  day.  This  scheme 
worked  at  first,  but  soon  the  sparrows  clubbed  to- 
gether, assaulted  his  castle,  and  literally  dragged 
him  out  by  sheer  force.  Then  he  gave  up  the  fight, 
and  no  doubt  returned  to  the  country  a  sadder  and 
a  w^iser  bird.  A  new  retreat  had  to  be  drilled  out. 
an  undertaking  which  must  have  caused  him  no  little 
solicitude.  It  would  be  interesting  to  know  where, 
in  the  mean  time,  he  passed  the  night.  Probably  in 
some  old  retreat  of  his  or  his  friends'. 

How  to  get  rid  of  the  English  sparrows,  or  to  keep 
them  in  clieck,  is  a  question  that  is  agitating  many 
of  our  communities.  A  sporadic  effort  here  and  there 
will  not  have  much  effect;  there  must  be  concerted 
action  over  a  w  ide  area.  The  blow  must  be  struck 
in  their  breeding-haunts.  In  every  town  that  has  a 
police  force,  let  it  be  one  of  the  duties  of  the  police 
to  spy  out  their  nesting-places  and  report  to  head- 
quarters, as  they  would  any  other  nuisance  or  misde- 

1G2 


NEW    GLEANINGS    IN    OLD    FIELDS 

rneanor.  Then  let  men  be  detailed  to  break  them  up. 
As  long  as  the  nest  is  untouched,  killing  the  birds  is 
of  little  avail.  A  friend  of  mine,  a  well-known  orni- 
thologist, told  me  that  one  summer  he  and  his  wife 
took  for  the  season  a  house  in  a  small  town  not  far 
from  Boston.  There  were  two  sparrows'  nests  in 
the  cavities  of  two  fruit  trees  in  the  garden.  At  once 
he  opened  war  upon  the  parent  birds.  He  shot  one 
of  them.  In  two  hours  the  male  or  female,  whichever 
it  was,  had  another  mate.  He  continued  the  shoot- 
ing. Whenever  a  bird  showed  itself  about  either  nest 
it  was  shot.  In  consequence  the  birds  became  very 
wild  and  shrewd,  till  he  was  compelled  to  fire  from 
a  crack  in  the  door.  But  he  kept  up  the  warfare 
till  he  had  killed  sixty-two  birds  about  those  nests, 
and  yet  from  each  cavity  a  brood  of  young  birds 
came  forth.  I  suppose  there  were  eggs  or  young  in 
the  nest  when  my  friend  appeared  upon  the  scene, 
and  that  he  did  not  in  any  one  day  kill  both  the  par- 
ent birds.  Had  he  done  so,  it  is  still  a  question 
whether  the  young  would  have  been  allowed  to  per- 
ish. Their  cries  would  probably  have  attracted  other 
birds. 

The  parental  instinct  is  strong  in  most  creatures. 
Birds  as  well  as  animals  will  sometimes  adopt  the 
young  of  others.  I  have  been  told  of  a  bluebird  that 
took  it  upon  himself  to  help  feed  some  young  vireos 
in  a  nest  near  his  own,  and  of  a  house  wren  that 
carried  food  to  some  young  robins. 

163 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

Last  summer  I  witnessed  a  similar  occurrence,  and 
made  this  record  in  my  note-book :  "  A  nest  of  young 
robins  in  the  maple  in  front  of  the  house  being  fed 
by  a  chipping  sparrow.    The  little  sparrow  is  very 
attentive ;    seems   decidedly   fond   of  her  adopted 
babies.     The  old  robins  resent  her  services,  and 
hustle  her  out  of  the  tree  whenever  they  find  her  near 
the  nest.    (It  was  this  hurried  departure  of  Chippy 
from  the  tree  that  first  attracted  my  attention.)   She 
watches  her  chances,  and  comes  with  food  in  their 
absence.    The  young  birds  are  about  ready  to  fly, 
and  when  the  chippy  feeds  them  her  head  fairly 
disappears  in  their  capacious  mouths.    She  jerks 
it  back  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  being  swallowed. 
Then  she  lingers  near  them  on  the  edge  of  the  nest, 
and  seems  to  admire  them.   When  she  sees  the  old 
robin  coming,  she  spreads  her  wings  in  an  attitude 
of  defense,  and  then  flies  away.    I  wonder  if  she 
has  had  the  experience  of  rearing  a  cow -bunting  "^  " 
(A  day  later.)    "The  robins  are  out  of  the  nest,  and 
the  little  sparrow  continues  to  feed  them.   She  ap- 
proaches them  rather  timidly  and  hesitatingly,  as  if 
she  feared  they  might  swallow  her,  then  thrusts  her 
titbit  quickly  into  the  distended  mouth  and  jerks 
back." 

Whether  the  chippy  had  lost  her  own  brood, 
whether  she  was  an  unmated  bird,  or  whether  the 
case  was  simply  the  overflowing  of  the  maternal  in* 
stinct,  it  would  be  interesting  to  know. 

164 


NEW   GLEANINGS   IN   OLD    FIELDS 

III 

I  am  glad  to  see  that  this  growing  interest  in  bird 
life  has  reached  our  schools  and  is  being  promoted 
there.  I  often  receive  letters  from  teachers  touchinsr 
these  matters.  A  teacher  in  the  State  of  Delaware 
wrote  me  that  he  and  his  pupils  were  trying  to  know 
all  the  birds  within  a  mile  of  their  schoolhouse. 
One  species  of  bird  had  puzzled  them  much.  The 
teacher  frequently  saw  the  birds  feeding  in  the  road 
in  the  evening  as  he  walked  home  from  school.  Then, 
when  the  blizzard  came,  they  approached  the  school- 
house  for  crumbs,  sometimes  in  loose  flocks  of  a 
dozen  or  more. 

This  is  the  teacher's  description  of  the  bird :  — 

"  The  upper  half  of  its  bill  is  dark,  and  about  one 
third  on  the  tips  of  the  lower.  The  rest  is  light.  The 
feathers  are  a  greenish  yellow  below  the  bill,  and  the 
throat  feathers  are  black  with  white  tips.  The  belly 
is  white,  but  the  feathers  are  black  underneath.  In 
size  it  is  a  little  smaller  than  the  robin.  It  has  a  chirp, 
when  flying,  something  like  the  cedar-bird.  The 
back  toe  is  certainly  very  long  for  so  small  a  bird." 

Had  not  this  description  been  accompanied  by  a 
wing,  leg,  and  tail  of  the  bird  in  question,  I  should 
have  been  at  a  loss  to  name  it.  One  of  the  birds  was 
found  dead  in  the  snow  beneath  the  telegraph  wires, 
and  this  afforded  the  samples.  It  proved  to  be  the 
prairie  homed  lark,  one  of  our  migrants,  which  passes 

165 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

the  winter  near  the  snow-hne  in  the  Southern  States, 
and  the  summer  in  the  hilly  parts  of  New  York, 
New  England,  and  Canada. 

The  above  description  makes  the  bird  much  too 
large,  as  its  size  is  nearer  that  of  the  bobolink  and 
the  bluebird.  All  the  larks  have  the  hind  toe  very 
prominent.  This  species,  like  the  true  skylark,  is 
entirely  a  terrestrial  bird,  and  never  alights  upon 
trees.  When  singing  it  soars  and  hovers  high  in  air 
like  the  skylark,  but  its  song  is  a  very  crude,  feeble 
affair  in  comparison  with  that  of  the  latter.  Its 
winter  plumage  is  far  less  marked  than  its  summer 
dress.  One  day  I  took  note  of  one  singing  above  my 
native  hills,  when  it  repeated  its  feeble,  lisping  song 
one  hundred  and  three  times  before  it  closed  its  wings 
and  dropped  to  the  earth  precisely  as  does  the  Euro- 
pean skylark. 

Another  teacher  writes  me  asking  if  the  blue  jay 
eats  acorns.  She  is  sure  she  has  seen  them  flying 
away  from  oak-trees  with  acorns  in  their  beaks,  and 
yet  some  authority  to  whom  she  had  appealed  was 
doubtful  about  their  eating  them.  It  is  quite  certain 
that  jays  eat  acorns,  but  they  carry  away  and  hide 
a  great  many  more  than  they  eat.  The  thieving  pro- 
pensity of  the  jay,  which  is  a  trait  of  his  family, 
the  Corvidce,  leads  him  to  carry  away  chestnuts  and 
acorns  and  hide  them  in  the  grass  and  under  leaves, 
and  thus  makes  him  an  unsuspecting  instrument 
in  the  planting  of  forests.    This  is  the  reason  why, 

1G6 


NEW    GLEANINGS    IN    OLD   FIELDS 

when  a  pine  or  hemlock  forest  is  cut  away,  oaks  and 
chestnuts  are  so  Ukely  to  spring  up.  These  nuts 
can  be  disseminated  only  by  the  aid  of  birds  and 
squirrels. 

A  clergyman  writes  me  from  a  New  England 
town  of  something  he  found  in  his  winter  walks  that 
puzzled  him  very  much.  It  was  an  old  cocoon  of  the 
cecropia  moth,  in  which  he  found  two  kernels  of 
corn.  What  creature  could  have  put  them  there,  and 
for  what  purpose  ?  Of  course  it  was  the  blue  jay;  he 
had  hidden  the  corn  in  the  same  blind  way  that  he 
hides  the  acorns.  I  have  seen  jays  in  winter  carry 
away  corn  and  put  it  into  an  old  worm's  nest  in  a 
wild-cherry  tree,  and  drop  it  into  knot-holes  in  the 
tree  trunk.  It  is  doubtful  if  the  jay  can  digest  corn 
swallowed  whole.  It  is  too  hard  a  grist  for  his  mill. 
He  will  peck  out  the  chit  or  softer  germinal  part,  as 
will  the  chickadee,  and  devour  that. 

Another  teacher  wrote  me  that  two  pretty  birds, 
strangers  to  her,  had  built  their  nest  in  a  pear-tree 
near  the  kitchen  door  of  her  house. 

They  were  small  and  slender,  the  male  of  a  ruddy 
brown,  his  head,  tail,  and  wings  black,  and  the  fe- 
male yellowish  green,  with  darker  wings.  The  male 
brought  worms  and  fed  his  mate  while  she  was  sit- 
ting,  and  seemed  the  happiest  bird  alive,  save  when 
the  kittens  romped  about  the  door  ;  and  then,  even 
in  the  midst  of  his  cries  of  alarm  like  a  blackbird's, 
he  would  burst  out  with  glad  notes  of  rejoicing,  a 

1G7 


FAR  AND    NEAR 

song  to  her  ear  like  a  sparrow's.  Soon  there  were 
young  in  the  nest,  and  the  air  was  filled  with  the  con- 
stant fluttering  of  wings  and  the  rapturous  song  of 
the  father.  But  alas!  one  morning  found  the  nest 
rifled  of  its  treasures,  and  only  the  silent,  miserable 
male  flitting  in  and  about  the  home  in  the  most 
heartbroken  fashion.  A  red  squirrel  or  a  cat  or  an 
owl  had  done  the  mischief.  The  nest  was  woven  of 
hemp  and  grasses,  and  was  suspended  from  the  fork 
of  a  limb.  The  teacher  guessed  rightly  that  the  bird 
was  a  near  relative  of  the  Baltimore  oriole;  it  was 
the  orchard  oriole,  a  much  rarer  bird  and  a  much 
finer  songster.  The  song  is  not  like  a  sparrow's, 
but  much  louder,  stronger,  and  more  ecstatic.  The 
male  does  not  get  his  full  uniform  of  black  and  bay 
till  the  fourth  summer. 

A  college  boy  once  wrote  me  that  he  had  seen  a  mo- 
ther oriole  fall  down  dead  when  her  nest  was  being 
robbed.  The  nest  was  in  a  large  sycamore  about 
twenty-five  feet  from  the  ground.  An  old  French- 
man Uving  near  wanted  one  of  the  eggs  for  his  col- 
lection. He  procured  a  long  pole,  armed  with  some 
sharp  nails  on  the  end,  and  from  the  top  of  a  small 
building:  under  the  tree  tried  to  cut  off  the  nest  from 
the  branch.  The  mother  bird  kept  her  place  within 
till  it  began  to  yield  before  the  assault.  Instead  of 
eggs,  the  nest  held  young  birds.  When  one  of  them 
fell  out,  the  mother  bird  flew  down  and  screamed 

around  it  in  great  excitement.   Before  the  man  could 

168 


NEW    GLEANINGS    IN    OLD    FIELDS 

loosen  his  pole  from  the  nest,  all  the  young  birds 
had  fallen  to  the  ground.  The  mother  was  darting 
and  screaming  about  them,  when  suddenly  she  fell 
to  the  ground  dead,  a  victim,  no  doubt,  to  her  exces- 
sive emotion  of  grief.  Birds  are  very  delicate,  high- 
strung  creatures,  and  probably  die  of  apoplexy  or 
heart  failure  as  frequently  as  human  beings. 

IV 

Love  the  wood-rose,  but  leave  it  on  its  stalk,  hints 
the  poet.  So,  I  say,  find  a  bird's  nest,  but  touch  not 
the  eggs.  It  seems  to  profane  the  nest  even  to  touch 
its  contents  with  the  utmost  care.  One  June  day,  I 
found  the  nest  of  the  yellow- winged  sparrow,  —  the 
sparrow  one  often  hears  in  our  fields  and  mead- 
ows, that  has  a  song  that  suggests  a  grasshopper.  I 
was  sitting  on  the  fence  that  bounded  a  hill  meadow, 
watching  the  horned  larks,  and  hoping  that  one  of 
them  would  disclose  the  locality  of  its  nest.  A  few 
yards  from  me  was  a  small  bush,  from  the  top  of 
which  a  yellow-winged  sparrow  was  sending  out  its 
feeble,  stridulous  song.  Presently  a  Uttle  brown  bird 
came  out  of  the  meadow  and  alighted  in  the  grass 
but  a  few  yards  from  the  singer.  Instantly  he  flew  to 
the  spot,  and  I  knew  it  was  his  mate.  They  seemed 
to  have  some  conversation  together  there  in  the  grass, 
when,  in  a  moment  or  two,  they  separated,  the  male 
flitting  to  his  perch  on  the  bush  and  continuing  his 
song,  while  the  female  disappeared  quickly  into  the 

169 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

grass  ten  or  more  yards  away.  "  The  nest  is  there," 
I  said,  "and  I  must  find  it."  So  I  walked  straight 
to  the  spot  where  the  bird  had  vanished  and  scru- 
tinized the  ground  closely.  Not  seeing  the  object 
of  my  search,  I  dropped  my  handkerchief  upon 
the  grass,  and  began  walking  cautiously  about  it 
in  circles,  covering  more  and  more  ground,  and 
scanning  closely  every  foot  of  the  meadow-bottom. 
Suddenly,  when  I  was  four  or  five  yards  from  my 
handkerchief,  a  little  dark-brown  bird  fluttered  out 
almost  from  under  my  feet,  and  the  pretty  secret 
was  mine. 

The  nest,  made  of  dry  grass  and  a  few  hairs,  was 
sunk  into  the  ground,  —  into  the  great,  brownish- 
gray,  undistinguished  meadow  surface,  —  and  held 
four  speckled  eggs.  The  mother  bird  fluttered 
through  the  grass,  and  tried,  by  feigning  disable- 
ment, to  lure  me  away  from  the  spot.  I  had  noticed 
that  the  male  had  ceased  singing  as  soon  as  I  be- 
gan my  search,  and  had  showed  much  uneasiness. 
He  now  joined  the  female,  and  two  more  agitated 
birds  I  had  never  seen.  The  actions  of  this  bird 
are  quick  and  nervous  at  all  times  ;  now  they  be- 
came almost  frenzied.  But  I  quickly  withdrew,  and 
concealed  myself  behind  the  fence.  After  a  brief 
consultation  the  birds  withdrew  also,  and  it  was 
nearly  a  half-hour  before  they  returned.  Then  the 
mother  bird,  after  much  feigning  and  flitting  ner- 
vously about,  dropped  into  the  grass  several  yards 

170 


NEW    GLEANINGS    IN    OLD    FIELDS 

from  the  nest.  I  fancied  her  approaching  it  in  la 
cautious,  circuitous,  indirect  way. 

In  the  afternoon  I  came  again;  also  the  next  day; 
but  at  no  time  did  I  find  the  male  in  song  on  his  old 
perch.  He  seemed  to  take  the  blame  of  the  accident 
upon  himself ;  he  had  betrayed  the  locality  of  the 
nest ;  and  now  I  found  him  upon  the  fence  or  upon 
an  apple-tree  far  off,  where  his  presence  or  his  song 
would  not  give  away  the  precious  secret. 

The  male  bird  of  almost  every  species  is  careful 
about  being  much  in  evidence  very  near  the  nest. 
You  will  generally  find  him  in  song  along  the  rim 
of  a  large  circle  of  which  the  nest  is  the  centre.  I 
have  known  poets  to  represent  the  bird  singing  upon 
its  nest,  but  if  this  ever  happens,  it  is  a  very  rare 
occurrence. 


IV 
BIRD  LIFE  IN  WINTER 

THE  distribution  of  our  birds  over  the  country  in 
summer  is  like  that  of  the  people,  quite  uni- 
form. Every  wood  and  field  has  its  quota,  and  no 
place  so  barren  but  it  has  some  bird  to  visit  it.  One 
knows  where  to  look  for  sparrows  and  thrushes  and 
bobolinks  and  warblers  and  flycatchers.  But  the 
occupation  of  the  country  by  our  winter  residents 
is  like  the  Indian  occupation  of  the  land.  They  are 
found  in  little  bands,  a  few  here  and  there,  with 
large  tracts  quite  untenanted. 

One  may  walk  for  hours  through  the  winter  woods 
and  not  see  or  hear  a  bird.  Then  he  may  come 
upon  a  troop  of  chickadees,  with  a  nuthatch  or  two 
in  their  wake,  and  maybe  a  downy  woodpecker. 
Birds  not  of  a  feather  flock  together  at  this  inclement 
season.  The  question  of  food  is  always  an  urgent 
one.  Evidently  the  nuthatch  thinks  there  must  be 
food  where  the  chickadees  flit  and  call  so  cheerily, 
and  the  woodpecker  is  probably  drawn  to  the  nut- 
hatch for  a  similar  reason. 

Together  they  make  a  pretty  thorough  search, — 
fine,  finer,  finest.   The  chickadee  explores  the  twigs 

173 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

and  smaller  branches ;  what  he  gets  is  on  the  surface, 
and  so  fine  as  to  be  almost  microscopic.  The  nut- 
hatch explores  the  trunks  and  larger  branches  of  the 
trees ;  he  goes  a  little  deeper,  into  crevices  of  the  bark 
and  under  lichens.  Then  comes  Downy,  who  goes 
deeper  still.  He  bores  for  larger  game  through  the 
bark,  and  into  the  trunks  and  branches  themselves. 

In  late  fall  this  band  is  often  joined  by  the  golden- 
crowned  kinglet  and  the  brown  creeper.  The  kinglet 
is  finer-eyed  and  finer-billed  than  even  the  chick- 
adee, and  no  doubt  gathers  what  the  latter  over- 
looks, while  the  brown  creeper,  with  his  long,  slender, 
curved  bill,  takes  what  both  the  nuthatch  and  the 
woodpecker  miss.  Working  together,  it  seems  as  if 
they  must  make  a  pretty  clean  sweep.  But  the  trees 
are  numerous  and  large,  and  the  birds  are  few.  Only 
a  mere  fraction  of  tree  surface  is  searched  over  at 
any  one  time.  In  large  forests  probably  only  a  mere 
fraction  of  the  trees  are  visited  at  all. 

One  cold  day  in  midwinter,  when  I  was  walking 
through  the  snowless  woods,  I  saw  chickadees,  nut- 
hatches, and  woodpeckers  upon  the  ground,  and 
upon  roots  and  fallen  branches.  They  were  look- 
ing for  the  game  that  had  fallen,  as  a  boy  looks  for 
apples  under  the  tree. 

The  winter  wren  is  so  called  because  he  sometimes 
braves  our  northern  winters,  but  it  is  rarely  that  one 
sees  him  at  this  season.  I  think  I  have  seen  him  only 
two  or  three  times  in  winter  in  my  life.    The  event 

174 


BIRD    LIFE    IN   WINTER 

of  one  long  walk,  recently,  in  February,  was  seeing 
one  of  these  birds.  As  I  followed  a  byroad,  beside 
a  little  creek  in  the  edge  of  a  wood,  my  eye  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  small  brown  bird  darting  under  a  stone 
bridge.  I  thought  to  myself  no  bird  but  a  wren 
would  take  refuge  under  so  small  a  bridge  as  that. 
I  stepped  down  upon  it  and  expected  to  see  the  bird 
dart  out  at  the  upper  end.  As  it  did  not  appear,  I 
scrutinized  the  bank  of  the  little  run,  covered  with 
logs  and  brush,  a  few  rods  farther  up. 

Presently  I  saw  the  wren  curtsying  and  gesticu- 
lating beneath  an  old  log.  As  I  approached  he  disap- 
peared beneath  some  loose  stones  in  the  bank,  then 
came  out  again  and  took  another  peep  at  me,  then 
fidgeted  about  for  a  moment  and  disappeared  again, 
running  in  and  out  of  the  holes  and  recesses  and  be- 
neath the  rubbish  like  a  mouse  or  a  chipmunk.  The 
winter  wren  may  always  be  known  by  these  squat- 
ting, bobbing-out-and-in  habits. 

As  I  sought  a  still  closer  view  of  him,  he  flitted 
stealthily  a  few  yards  up  the  run  and  disappeared 
beneath  a  small  plank  bridge  near  a  house. 

I  wondered  what  he  could  feed  upon  at  such  a 
time.  There  was  a  light  skim  of  snow  upon  the 
ground,  and  the  weather  was  cold.  The  wren,  so  far 
as  I  know,  is  entirely  an  insect-feeder,  and  where  can 
he  find  insects  in  midwinter  in  our  climate  ?  Probably 
by  searching  under  bridges,  under  brush  heaps,  in 
holes  and  cavities  in  banks  where  the  sun  falls  warm. 

175 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

In  such  places  he  may  find  dormant  spiders  and  flies 
and  other  hibernating  insects  or  their  larva?.  We 
have  a  tiny,  mosquito-like  creature  that  comes  forth 
in  March  or  in  midwinter,  as  soon  as  the  temper- 
ature is  a  little  above  freezing.  One  may  see  them 
performing  their  fantastic  air-dances  when  the  air 
is  so  chilly  that  one  buttons  his  overcoat  about  him 
in  his  w^alk.  They  are  darker  than  the  mosquito,  — 
a  sort  of  dark  water-color,  —  and  are  very  frail  to 
the  touch.  Maybe  the  wTen  knows  the  hiding-place 
of  these  insects. 

With  food  in  abundance,  no  doubt  many  more  of 
our  birds  w^ould  brave  the  rigors  of  our  winters.  I 
have  known  a  pair  of  bluebirds  to  brave  them  on 
such  poor  rations  as  are  afforded  by  the  hardback 
or  sugarberry,  —  a  drupe  the  size  of  a  small  pea,  w  ith 
a  thin,  sweet  skin.  Probably  hardly  one  per  cent,  of 
the  drupe  is  digestible  food.  Bluebirds  in  December 
will  also  eat  the  berries  of  the  poison  ivy,  as  will  the 
downy  woodpecker. 

Robins  will  pass  the  winter  with  us  when  the  cover 
of  a  pine  or  hemlock  forest  can  be  had  near  a  supply 
of  red  cedar  berries.  The  cedar-bird  probably  finds 
little  other  food  in  the  valley  of  the  Hudson  and  in 
New  England,  yet  I  see  occasional  flocks  of  them 
every  winter  month. 

Sometimes  the  chickadees  and  nuthatches,  hunt- 
ing through  the  winter  woods,  make  a  discovery  that 
brings  every  bird  within  hearing  to  the  spot,  —  they 

176 


BIRD    LIFE    IN   WINTER 

spy  out  the  screech  owl  hiding  in  the  thick  of  a  hem- 
lock-tree. What  an  event  it  is  in  the  day's  experience! 
It  sets  the  whole  clan  agog. 

While  I  was  walking  in  the  December  woods,  one 
day,  my  attention  was  attracted  by  a  great  hue  and 
cry  among  these  birds.  I  found  them  in  and  about 
a  hemlock-tree,  —  eight  or  ten  chickadees  and  four 
or  five  red-bellied  nuthatches.  Such  a  chiding  chorus 
of  tiny  voices  I  had  not  heard  for  a  long  time.  The 
tone  was  not  that  of  alarm  so  much  as  it  was  that 
of  trouble  and  displeasure. 

I  gazed  long  and  long  up  into  the  dark,  dense 
green  mass  of  the  tree  to  make  out  the  cause  of  all 
this  excitement.  The  chickadees  were  clinging  to  the 
ends  of  the  sprays,  as  usual,  apparently  very  busy 
looking  for  food,  and  all  the  time  uttering  their  shrill 
plaint.  The  nuthatches  perched  about  upon  the 
branches  or  ran  up  and  down  the  tree  trunks,  inces- 
santly piping  their  displeasure.  At  last  I  made  out 
the  cause  of  the  disturbance,  —  a  little  owl  on  a  limb, 
looking  down  in  wide-eyed  intentness  upon  me. 
How  annoyed  he  must  have  felt  at  all  this  hullabaloo, 
this  lover  of  privacy  and  quiet,  to  have  his  name 
cried  from  the  treetops,  and  his  retreat  advertised 
to  every  passer-by ! 

I  have  never  known  woodpeckers  to  show  any 
excitement  at  the  presence  of  hawk  or  owl,  probably 
because  they  are  rarely  preyed  upon  by  these  ma- 
rauders.   In  their  nests  and  in  their  winter  quarters, 

177 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

deeply  excavated  in  trunk  or  branch  of  tree,  wood- 
peckers are  beyond  the  reach  of  both  beak  and  claw. 

The  day  I  saw  the  winter  wren  I  saw  two  golden- 
crowned  kinglets  fly  from  one  sycamore  to  another 
in  an  open  field,  uttering  their  fine  call-notes.  That 
so  small  a  body  can  brave  the  giant  cold  of  our  win- 
ters seems  remarkable  enough.  These  are  mainly 
birds  of  the  evergreens,  although  at  times  they  fre- 
quent the  groves  and  the  orchards. 

How  does  the  ruby-crowned  kinglet  know  he  has 
a  brilliant  bit  of  color  on  his  crown  which  he  can 
uncover  at  will,  and  that  this  has  great  charms  for 
the  female?  During  the  rivalries  of  the  males  in 
the  mating  season,  and  in  the  autumn  also,  they 
flash  this  brilliant  ruby  at  each  other.  I  witnessed 
what  seemed  to  be  a  competitive  display  of  tliis 
kind  one  evening  in  November.  I  was  walking  along 
the  road,  when  my  ear  was  attracted  by  the  fine, 
shrill  lisping  and  piping  of  a  small  band  of  these 
birds  in  an  apple-tree.  I  paused  to  see  what  was  the 
occasion  of  so  much  noise  and  bluster  among  these 
tiny  bodies.  There  were  four  or  five  of  them,  all 
more  or  less  excited,  and  two  of  them  especially  so. 
I  think  the  excitement  of  the  others  was  only  a 
reflection  of  that  of  these  two.  These  were  hopping 
around  each  other,  apparently  peering  down  upon 
something  beneath  them.  I  suspected  a  cat  con- 
cealed behind  the  wall,  and  so  looked  over,  but 
there  was  nothing  there.      Observing  them  more 

178 


BIRD    LIFE    IN   WINTER 

closely,  I  saw  that  the  two  birds  were  entirely  occu- 
pied with  each  other. 

They  behaved  exactly  as  if  they  were  comparing 
crowns,  and  each  extolHng  his  own.  Their  heads 
were  bent  forward,  the  red  crown  patch  uncovered 
and  showing  as  a  large,  brilHant  cap,  their  tails 
were  spread,  and  the  side  feathers  below  the  wings 
were  fluffed  out.  They  did  not  come  to  blows,  but 
followed  each  other  about  amid  the  branches,  ut- 
tering their  thin,  shrill  notes  and  displaying  their 
ruby  crowns  to  the  utmost.  Evidently  it  was  some 
sort  of  strife  or  dispute  or  rivalry  that  centred  about 
this  brilliant  patch. 

Few  persons  seem  aware  that  the  goldfinch  is  also 
a  winter  bird,  —  it  is  so  brilliant  and  familiar  in  sum- 
mer and  so  neutral  and  withdrawn  in  winter.  The 
call-note  and  manner  of  flight  do  not  change,  but  the 
color  of  the  males  and  their  habits  are  very  different 
from  their  color  and  habits  in  summer.  In  winter 
they  congregate  in  small,  loose  flocks,  both  sexes  of 
a  dusky  yellowish  brown,  and  feed  upon  the  seeds 
of  grasses  and  weeds  that  stand  above  the  snow  in 
fields  and  along  fences. 

Day  after  day  I  have  observed  a  band  of  five 
or  six  of  them  feeding  amid  the  dry  stalks  of  the 
evening  primrose  by  the  roadside.  They  are  adepts 
in  extracting  the  seed  from  the  pods.  How  pretty 
their  call  to  each  other  at  such  times,  —  paisley  of 
'peasely,  with  the  rising  inflection ! 

170 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

The  only  one  of  our  winter  birds  that  really  seems 
a  part  of  the  winter,  that  seems  to  be  bom  of  the 
whirling  snow,  and  to  be  happiest  when  storms  drive 
thickest  and  coldest,  is  the  snow  bunting,  the  real 
snowbird,  with  plumage  copied  from  the  fields  where 
the  drifts  hide  all  but  the  tops  of  the  tallest  weeds,  — 
large  spaces  of  pure  white  touched  here  and  there 
wnth  black  and  gray  and  brown.  Its  twittering  call 
and  chirrup  coming  out  of  the  white  obscurity  is  the 
sweetest  and  happiest  of  all  winter  bird  sounds.  It 
is  like  the  laughter  of  children.  The  fox-huntei 
hears  it  on  the  snowy  hills,  the  farmer  hears  it  when 
he  goes  to  fodder  his  cattle  from  the  distant  stack, 
the  country  schoolboy  hears  it  as  he  breaks  his  way 
through  the  drifts  toward  the  school.  It  is  ever  a 
voice  of  good  cheer  and  contentment. 

One  March,  during  a  deep  snow,  a  large  flock  of 
buntings  stayed  about  my  vineyards  for  several  days, 
feeding  upon  the  seeds  of  redroot  and  other  weeds 
that  stood  above  the  snow.  What  boyhood  associa- 
tions their  soft  and  cheery  calls  brought  up!  How 
plump  and  well-fed  and  hardy  they  looked,  and  how 
alert  and  suspicious  they  were !  They  evidently  had 
had  experiences  with  hawks  and  shrikes.  Every 
minute  or  two  they  would  all  spring  into  the  air  as 
one  bird,  circle  about  for  a  moment,  then  alight  upon 
the  snow  again.  Occasionally  one  would  perch  upon 
a  wire  or  grapevine,  as  if  to  keep  watch  and  ward 

Presently,  while  I  stood  in  front  of  my  study  look 

180 


BIRD  LIFE  IN  WINTER 

ing  at  them,  a  larger  and  darker  bird  came  swiftly 
by  me,  flying  low  and  straight  toward  the  buntings. 
He  shot  beneath  the  trellises,  and  evidently  hoped 
to  surprise  the  birds.  It  w^as  a  shrike,  thirsting  for 
blood  or  brains.  But  the  buntings  were  on  the  alert, 
and  were  up  in  the  air  before  the  feathered  assassin 
reached  them.  As  the  flock  wheeled  about,  he  joined 
them  and  flew  along  with  them  for  some  distance, 
but  made  no  attempt  to  strike  that  I  could  see. 

Presently  he  left  them  and  perched  upon  the  top  of 
a  near  maple.  The  birds  did  not  seem  to  fear  him 
now,  but  swept  past  the  treetop  where  he  sat  as  if 
to  challenge  him  to  a  race,  and  then  went  their  way. 
I  have  seen  it  stated  that  these  birds,  when  suddenly 
surprised  by  a  hawk,  will  dive  beneath  the  snow  to 
escape  him.  They  doubtless  roost  upon  the  ground, 
as  do  most  ground-builders,  and  hence  must  often  be 
covered  by  the  falling  snow. 


V 
A  BIRDS'   FREE  LUNCH 

ONE  winter,  during  four  or  five  weeks  of  severe 
weather,  several  of  our  winter  birds  were 
pensioners  upon  my  bounty,  —  three  blue  jays, 
two  downy  woodpeckers,  three  chickadees,  and 
one  kinglet,  —  and  later  a  snowbird  —  junco  —  ap- 
peared. 

I  fastened  pieces  of  suet  and  marrow-bones  upon 
the  tree  in  front  of  my  window,  then,  as  I  sat  at  my 
desk,  watched  the  birds  at  their  free  lunch.  The  jays 
bossed  the  woodpeckers,  the  woodpeckers  bossed  the 
chickadees,  and  the  chickadees  bossed  the  kinglet. 

Sometimes  in  my  absence  a  crow  would  swoop 
down  and  boss  the  whole  crew  and  carry  off  the 
meat.  The  kinglet  was  the  least  of  all, — a  sort  of 
"  hop-o'-my-thumb  "  bird.  He  became  quite  tame, 
and  one  day  alighted  upon  my  arm  as  I  stood  lean- 
ing against  the  tree.  I  could  have  put  my  hand 
upon  him  several  times.  I  wonder  where  the  midget 
roosted.  He  was  all  alone.  He  liked  the  fare  so  well 
that  he  seemed  disposed  to  stop  till  spring.  Dur- 
ing one  terrible  night  of  wind  and  snow  and  zero 
temperature  I  feared  he  would  be  swept  away-     1 

183 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

thought  of  him  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  when  the 
violence  of  the  storm  kept  me  from  sleep.  Imagine 
this  solitary  atom  in  feathers  drifting  about  in  the 
great  arctic  out-of-doors  and  managing  to  survive. 
I  fancied  him  in  one  of  ray  thick  spruces,  his  head 
under  his  tiny  wing,  buffeted  by  wind  and  snow,  his 
little  black  feet  clinging  to  the  perch,  and  wishing 
that  morning  would  come. 

The  fat  meat  is  fuel  for  him  ;  it  keeps  up  the 
supply  of  animal  heat.  None  of  the  birds  will  eat 
lean  meat;  they  want  the  clear  fat.  The  jays  alight 
upon  it  and  peck  away  with  great  vigor,  almost 
standing  on  tiptoe  to  get  the  proper  sweep.  The 
woodpecker  uses  his  head  alone  in  pecking,  but 
the  jay's  action  involves  the  whole  body.  Yet  his 
blows  are  softer,  not  so  sharp  and  abrupt  as  those 
of  the  woodpecker.  Pecking  is  not  exactly  his  busi- 
ness. 

He  swallows  the  morsel  eagerly,  watching  all 
the  time  lest  some  enemy  surprise  him  in  the  act. 
Indeed,  one  noticeable  thing  about  all  the  birds 
is  their  nervousness  while  eating.  The  chickadee 
turns  that  bead-like  eye  of  his  in  all  directions  inces- 
santly, lest  something  seize  him  while  he  is  not  look- 
ing. He  is  not  off  his  guard  for  a  moment.  It  is 
almost  painful  to  observe  the  state  of  fear  in  which 
he  lives.  He  will  not  keep  his  place  upon  the  bone 
longer  than  a  few  seconds  at  a  time  lest  he  become 
a  mark  for  some  enemy,  —  a  hawk,  a  shrike,  or  a  cat. 

184 


A   BIRDS'    FREE    LUNCH 

One  would  not  think  the  food  would  digest  when 
taken  in  such  haste  and  trepidation. 

While  the  jays  are  feeding,  swallowing  morsel 
after  morsel  very  rapidly,  the  chickadees  flit  about  in 
an  anxious,  peevish  manner,  lest  there  be  none  left 
for  themselves. 

I  suspect  the  jays  carry  the  food  off  and  hide  it, 
as  they  certainly  do  corn  when  I  put  it  out  for  the 
hens.  The  jay  has  a  capacious  throat ;  he  will  lodge 
half  a  dozen  or  more  kernels  of  corn  in  it,  stretching 
his  neck  up  as  he  takes  them,  to  give  them  room,  and 
then  fly  away  to  an  old  bird's-nest  or  a  caterpillar's 
nest  and  deposit  them  in  it.  But  in  this  respect  the 
little  kettle  cannot  call  the  big  pot  black.  The  chickr 
adee  also  will  carry  away  what  it  cannot  eat.  One 
day  I  dug  a  dozen  or  more  white  grubs  —  the  larvae 
of  some  beetle  —  out  of  a  decayed  maple  on  my 
woodpile  and  placed  them  upon  my  window-sill. 
The  chickadees  soon  discovered  them,  and  fell  to 
carrying  them  off  as  fast  as  ever  they  could,  dis- 
tributing them  among  the  branches  of  the  Norway 
spruces.  Among  the  grubs  was  one  large  white 
one  half  the  size  of  one's  little  finger.  One  of  the 
chickadees  seized  this;  it  was  all  he  could  carry, 
but  he  made  off  with  it.  The  mate  to  this  grub 
I  found  rolled  up  in  a  smooth  cell  in  a  mass  of 
decayed  wood  at  the  heart  of  the  old  maple  re- 
ferred to ;  it  was  full  of  frost.  I  carried  it  in  by  the 
fire,  and  the  next  day  it  was  alive  and  apparently 

185 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

wanted  to  know  what  had  brought  spring  so  sud- 
denly. 

How  rapidly  birds  live !  Their  demand  for  food  is 
almost  incessant.  This  colony  of  mine  appear  to 
feed  every  eight  or  ten  minutes.  Their  little  mills 
grind  their  grist  very  rapidly.  Once  in  my  walk  upon 
the  sea  beach  I  encountered  two  small  beach  birds 
running  up  and  down  in  the  edge  of  the  surf,  keep- 
ing just  in  the  thin,  lace-like  edging  of  the  waves, 
and  feeding  upon  the  white,  cricket-like  hoppers 
that  quickly  buried  themselves  in  the  sand  as  the 
waters  retreated.  I  kept  company  with  the  birds 
till  they  ceased  to  be  afraid  of  me.  They  would  feed 
eagerly  for  a  few  minutes  and  then  stop,  stand  on 
one  leg  and  put  their  heads  under  their  wings  for 
two  or  three  minutes,  and  then  resume  their  feeding, 
so  rapidly  did  they  digest  their  food.  But  all  birds 
digest  very  rapidly. 

My  two  woodpeckers  seldom  leave  the  tree  upon 
which  the  food  is  placed.  One  is  a  male,  as  is  shown 
by  his  red  plume,  and  the  other  a  female.  There  is 
not  a  bit  of  kindness  or  amity  between  them.  Indeed, 
there  is  open  hostility.  The  male  will  not  allow  the 
female  even  to  look  at  the  meat  while  he  is  feeding. 
She  will  sidle  around  toward  it,  edging  nearer  and 
nearer,  when  he  will  suddenly  dart  at  her,  and 
often  pursue  her  till  she  leaves  the  tree.  Every  hour 
in  the  day  I  see  him  trying  to  drive  her  from  the 
neighborhood.  She  stands  in  perpetual  dread  of  him 

186 


A   BIRDS'    FREE    LUNCH 

and  gives  way  the  instant  he  approaches.  lie  is 
a  tyrant  and  a  bully.  They  both  pass  the  night 
in  snug  chambers  which  they  have  excavated  in 
the  decayed  branch  of  an  old  apple-tree,  but  not 
together. 

But  in  the  spring  what  a  change  will  come  over 
the  male.  He  will  protest  to  the  female  that  he  was 
only  in  fun,  that  she  took  him  far  too  seriously, 
that  he  had  always  cherished  a  liking  for  her.  Last 
April  I  saw  a  male  trying  his  blandishments  upon  a 
female  in  this  way.  It  may  have  been  the  satoe  pair 
I  am  now  observing.  The  female  was  extremely  shy 
and  reluctant ;  evidently  she  was  skeptical  of  the  sin- 
cerity of  so  sudden  a  change  on  the  part  of  the  male. 
I  saw  him  pursue  her  from  tree  to  tree  with  the  most 
flattering  attention.  The  flight  of  the  woodpecker 
is  at  all  times  undulating,  but  on  such  occasions 
this  feature  is  so  enhanced  and  the  whole  action  so 
affected  and  studied  on  the  part  of  the  male  that 
the  scene  becomes  highly  amusing.  The  female  flew 
down  upon  a  low  stump  in  the  currant-patch  and  was 
very  busy  about  her  own  affairs ;  the  male  followed 
alighted  on  something  several  rods  distant,  and  ap- 
peared to  be  equally  busy  about  his  affairs.  Presently 
the  female  made  quite  a  long  flight  to  a  tree  by  the 
roadside.  I  could  not  tell  how  the  male  knew  she  had 
flown  and  what  course  she  had  taken,  as  he  was  hid- 
den from  her  amid  the  thick  currant-bushes;  but 
he  did  know,  and  soon  followed  after  in  his  curious 

187 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

exaggerated  undulatory  manner  of  flight.  I  have 
Httle  doubt  that  his  suit  was  finally  successful. 

I  watch  these  woodpeckers  daily  to  see  if  I  can 
solve  the  mystery  as  to  how  they  hop  up  and  down 
the  trunks  and  branches  without  falling  away  from 
them  when  they  let  go  their  hold.  They  come  down 
a  limb  or  trunk  backward  by  a  series  of  little  hops, 
moving  both  feet  together.  If  the  limb  is  at  an  angle 
to  the  tree  and  they  are  on  the  under  side  of  it,  they 
do  not  fall  away  from  it  to  get  a  new  hold  an  inch  or 
half  inch  farther  down.  They  are  held  to  it  as  steel 
to  a  magnet.  Both  tail  and  head  are  involved  in 
the  feat.  At  the  instant  of  making  the  hop  the  head 
is  thrown  in  and  the  tail  thrown  out,  but  the  exact 
mechanics  of  it  I  cannot  penetrate.  Philosophers 
do  not  yet  know  how  a  backward- falling  cat  turns 
in  the  air,  but  turn  she  does.  It  may  be  that  the 
w  oodpecker  never  quite  relaxes  his  hold,  though  to 
my  eye  he  appears  to  do  so. 

Birds  nearly  always  pass  the  night  in  such  places 
as  they  select  for  their  nests,  — ground-builders  upon 
the  ground,  tree-builders  upon  trees.  I  have  seen 
an  oriole  ensconce  himself  for  the  night  amid  the 
thick  cluster  of  leaves  on  the  end  of  a  maple  branch, 
where  soon  after  his  mate  built  her  nest. 

My  chickadees,  true  to  this  rule,  pass  the  arctic 
w^inter  nights  in  little  cavities  in  the  trunks  of  trees 
like  the  woodpeckers.  One  cold  day,  about  four 
o'clock,  while  it  was  snowing  and  blowing,  I  heard, 

188 


A   BIRDS'    FREE    LUNCH 

as  I  was  unharnessing  my  horse  near  the  old  apple- 
tree,  the  sharp,  chiding  note  of  a  chickadee.  On  look- 
ing for  the  bird  I  failed  to  see  him.  Suspecting  the 
true  cause  of  his  sudden  disappearance,  I  took  a  pole 
and  touched  a  limb  that  had  an  opening  in  its  end 
where  the  wrens  had  the  past  season  had  a  nest.  As 
I  did  so,  out  came  the  chickadee  and  scolded  sharply. 
The  storm  and  the  cold  had  driven  him  early  to  his 
chamber.  The  snow  buntings  are  said  to  plunge 
into  the  snow-banks  and  pass  the  night  there.  We 
know  the  ruffed  grouse  does  this. 


VI 

TWO  BIRDS -NESTS 

I  CONSIDER  myself  lucky  if,  in  the  course  of  a 
season,  I  can  pick  up  two  or  three  facts  in  nat- 
ural history  that  are  new  to  me.  To  have  a  new 
delight  in  an  old  or  familiar  fact  is  not  always  easy, 
and  is  perhaps  quite  as  much  to  be  desired.  The 
familiar  we  always  have  with  us ;  to  see  it  with  fresh 
eyes  so  as  to  find  a  new  pleasure  in  it, — that  is  a 
great  point. 

I  think  one  never  sees  a  bird's-nest  of  any  kind 
without  fresh  pleasure.  It  is  such  a  charming  secret, 
and  is  usually  so  well  kept  by  the  tree,  or  bank,  or 
bit  of  ground  that  holds  it;  and  then  it  is  such  a 
dainty  and  exquisite  cradle  or  nursery  amid  its  rough 
and  wild  surroundings,  —  a  point  so  cherished  and 
cared  for  in  the  apparently  heedless  economy  of 
the  fields  or  woods ! 

When  it  is  a  new  nest  and  one  long  searched  for, 
the  pleasure  is  of  course  proportionally  greater. 
Such  a  pleasure  came  to  me  one  day  last  summer  in 
early  July,  when  I  discovered  the  nest  of  the  water- 
thrush  or  water- wagtail. 

The  nest  of  its  cousin  the  oven-bird,  called  by  the 

191 


FAR   AND   NEAR 

old  ornithologists  the  golden-crowned  thrush,  was 
familiar  to  me,  as  it  probably  is  to  most  country 
boys,  —  a  nest  partly  thrust  under  the  dry  leaves 
upon  the  ground  in  the  woods,  and  holding  four  or 
five  whitish  eggs  covered  with  reddish-brown  spots. 
The  mother  bird  is  in  size  less  than  the  sparrow, 
and  in  color  is  a  light  olive  with  a  speckled  breast, 
and  she  is  the  prettiest  walker  to  be  seen  in  the 
woods. 

The  water-accentor  or  wagtail  is  a  much  rarer 
bird,  and  of  a  darker  olive  green.  As  the  color  of  the 
oven-bird  harmonizes  with  the  dry  leaves  over  which 
it  walks,  so  the  color  of  the  wagtail  is  in  keeping  with 
the  dark- veined  brooks  and  forest  pools  along  which 
it  flits  and  near  which  it  nests. 

With  me  it  is  an  April  bird.  When  the  spice-bush 
is  in  bloom  along  the  fringes  of  the  creeks,  and 
the  leaves  of  the  adder's-tongue  or  fawn  lily  have 
pierced  the  mould,  I  expect  to  hear  the  water-thrush. 
Its  song  is  abrupt,  bright,  and  ringing.  It  contrasts 
with  its  surroundings  as  does  the  flower  of  the  blood- 
root  which  you  may  have  seen  that  day. 

It  is  the  large-billed  or  Louisiana  water-thrush  of 
which  I  am  speaking.  The  other  species,  the  New 
York  water-accentor,  is  rarer  with  me,  and  goes 
farther  into  the  mountains. 

The  large-billed  is  a  quick,  shy,  emphatic  bird  in 
Its  manner.  Some  birds,  such  as  the  true  thrushes, 
impress  one  as  being  of  a  serene,  contemplative  dis- 

192 


TWO   BIRDS'-NESTS 

position;  there  is  a  kind  of  harmony  and  tranquil- 
lity in  all  their  movements;  but  the  bird  I  am 
speaking  of  is  sharp,  restless,  hurried.  Its  song  is 
brilliant,  its  movements  quick  and  decisive.  You 
hear  its  emphatic  chirp,  and  see  it  dart  swiftly  be- 
neath or  through  the  branches  that  reach  out  over 
the  creek. 

It  nests  upon  the  ground,  or  amid  the  roots  of  an 
upturned  tree  in  the  woods  near  the  water  that  it 
haunts.  Every  season  for  many  years  I  have  looked 
for  the  nest,  but  failed  to  find  it  till  last  summer. 

My  son  and  I  were  camping  in  the  Catskills,  when 
one  day,  as  I  was  slowly  making  my  way  down  one  of 
those  limpid  trout  streams,  I  saw  a  water-thrush  dart 
from  out  a  pile  of  logs  and  driftwood  that  the  floods 
had  left  on  the  margin  of  the  stream.  The  bird  at 
once  betrayed  much  anxiety,  and  I  knew  the  nest 
was  near. 

I  proceeded  carefully  to  explore  the  pile  of  drift- 
wood, and  especially  the  roots  of  an  upturned  tree 
which  it  held.  I  went  over  the  mass  almost  inch  by 
inch  several  times.  There  was  a  little  cavern  in  it, 
a  yard  or  more  deep,  where  the  light  was  dim;  a 
translucent  pool  of  water  formed  the  floor  of  it,  and 
kept  me  from  passing  its  threshold.  I  suspected  the 
nest  was  in  there  amid  the  roots  or  broken  branches, 
but  my  eye  failed  to  detect  it. 

"I  will  go  on  with  my  fishing,"  I  said,  "and  re* 
turn  to-morrow  and  lay  siege  to  tliis  secret." 

193 


FAR   AND   NEAR 

So  on  the  morrow  I  returned,  and  carefully  se- 
creted myself  on  a  mossy  bank  a  few  yards  from  the 
pile  of  driftwood.  Presently  the  parent  bird  came 
with  food  in  its  beak,  but  instantly  spying  me,  though 
I  fancied  that  in  my  recumbent  position  and  faded 
gray  clothes  I  simulated  well  an  old  log,  she  grew 
alarmed  and  refused  to  approach  the  nest. 

She  flitted  nervously  about  from  point  to  point, 
her  attention  directed  to  me,  and  uttering  a  sharp, 
chiding  note.  Soon  her  mate  came,  and  the  two  birds 
flitted  about  me,  peering,  attitudinizing,  scolding. 
The  mother  bird  is  always  the  bolder  and  more 
demonstrative  on  such  occasions.  I  was  amused  at 
her  arts  and  feints  and  her  sudden  fits  of  alarm. 
Sometimes  she  would  quickly  become  silent,  and 
stealthily  approach  the  entrance  of  the  little  cavern 
in  the  pile  of  driftwood;  then,  her  fears  and  sus- 
picions reviving,  with  emphatic  chirps  she  would  try 
again  to  penetrate  the  mystery  of  that  motionless, 
prostrate  form  on  the  bank. 

The  dead  branch  of  a  tree  that  slanted  down  to 
the  bed  of  the  stream  near  me  was  her  favorite  perch. 
Inch  by  inch  she  would  hop  up  it,  her  body  mov- 
ing like  a  bandmaster's  baton,  her  notes  sharp  and 
emphatic,  her  wings  slightly  drooping,  meanwhile 
bringing  first  one  eye  and  then  the  other  to  bear 
upon  the  supposed  danger. 

While  she  was  thus  engaging  my  attention,  I 
saw  the  male  quickly  slip  into  the  little  cavern  with 

194 


TWO   BIRDS'-NESTS 

loaded  beak,  and  in  a  moment  reappear.  He  ran 
swiftly  along  the  dry  pebbles  a  few  yards,  and  then 
took  to  wing,  and  joined  in  the  cry  against  me.  In 
a  few  moments  he  disappeared,  presumably  in  quest 
of  more  food. 

The  mother,  after  many  feints  and  passes  and 
false  moves,  half -fearful  of  her  own  rashness,  darted 
into  the  little  cavern  also.  She  soon  shot  out  from 
it  on  nimble  foot,  as  had  her  mate,  tl^  took  to 
wing,  and  to  fresh  peering  and  abuse  of  the  strange 
object  on  the  bank.    - 

The  male  was  soon  on  the  scene  again,  and  after  a 
little  flourishing,  entered  the  shadow  of  the  cavern 
as  before.  Pausing  a  moment,  the  female  did  the 
same. 

Evidently  their  suspicions  were  beginning  to  be 
lulled.  They  had  seen  fishermen  many,  a  few  every 
day  for  wrecks,  and  had  grown  used  to  them ;  these 
had  gone  on  about  their  business  ;  but  this  one 
that  tarried  and  seemed  bent  on  finding  out  other 
people's  business,  —  here  was  cause  for  alarm! 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  I  felt  sure  I  had  the 
birds'  secret,  —  I  had  seen  in  the  recesses  of  the 
cavern  the  exact  spot  where  they  seemed  to  pause 
a  moment  and  then  turn  back.  So  I  approached 
the  spot  confidently  ;  I  got  down  on  my  knees  and 
charged  my  eyes  to  find  the  nest. 

I  am  surprised  that  they  seem  baffled.  At  the 
particular  niche  or  shelf  in  the  mass  of  roots  they 

195 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

report  only  moss  or  moist  stones,  —  no  nest  there. 
I  peer  long  and  long.  The  little  pool  of  limpid  water 
keeps  me  five  or  six  feet  away. 

Well,  there  must  be  some  unseen  hole  or  cavity 
in  there  which  leads  to  the  nest  beyond  the  reach  of 
the  eve.  But  I  will  watch  ac:ain  and  be  sure.  So  I 
retreat  to  the  bank,  and  the  same  little  comedy  or 
drama  is  played  as  before. 

At  last  I  am  positive  I  can  put  my  hand  upon  the 
nest.  I  procure  a  fragment  of  a  board,  bridge  over 
the  little  pool,  thrust  my  head  into  the  dim  light  of 
the  cavity,  and  closely  scan  every  inch  of  the  surface. 
No  nest,  says  the  eye.  Then  I  will  try  another  sense; 
I  will  feel  with  my  hand. 

Slowly  my  hand  explores  the  place;  presently  it 
touches  something  soft  and  warm  at  the  very  spot 
where  I  had  seen  the  birds  pause.  It  is  the  backs 
of  the  young  birds ;  they  have  flattened  themselves 
down  until  their  beaks  are  on  a  level  with  the  top  of 
the  nest.  They  have  baflSed  the  eye  because,  in  the 
scant  light,  they  blend  perfectly  with  their  surround- 
ings and  just  fill  the  depression  of  the  nest.  The 
hand,  going  behind  form  and  color,  finds  them  out. 
I  felt  that  I  had  penetrated  one  of  the  prettiest 
secrets  in  all  the  woods,  and  got  a  new  glimpse  of 
the  art  and  cunning  of  a  bird. 

The  young  were  between  down  and  feather,  of  a 
grayish  slate  color,  and  they  played  their  part  well. 
At  my  approach  they  would  settle  down  in  the  nest 

196 


TWO    BIRDS-NESTS 

till,  instead  of  five,  they  became  one,  and  that  one  a 
circular  mass  of  dark  bluish  stone  or  fragment  of 
bark.  When  I  withdrcAv  or  concealed  myself,  they 
would  rise  up  and  their  individual  forms  become 
outlined. 

Another  new  nest  which  it  was  my  luck  to  find  the 
past  summer  was  that  of  the  worm-eating  warbler,  a 
bird  of  the  Carolinian  fauna,  that  heretofore  has  not 
been  known  to  breed  in  our  State  —  New  York.  It 
was  a  new  find,  then,  in  a  double  sense,  new  to  me 
and  new  to  the  ornithology  of  the  State. 

One  day  in  early  June,  as  I  was  walking  along  a 
path  on  the  side  of  a  bushy  hill,  near  dense  woods, 
I  had  a  glimpse  of  a  small  brown  bird  that  dashed 
away  from  the  bank  but  a  few  feet  from  me.  I  took 
it  to  be  the  oven-bird. 

Looking  to  the  spot  from  whence  it  started,  I  saw 
a  bird  with  a  striped  head  standing  on  the  edge  of  a 
nest  *n  Ihe  side  of  the  shelving  bank,  with  something 
white  in  its  beak.  I  saw  the  heads  of  the  young  birds 
beneath,  and  took  in  the  situation  instantly;  I  had 
surprised  the  mother  bird  while  she  was  waiting 
upon  her  young.  She  stood  motionless,  half-turned 
toward  me,  still  keeping  the  white  mass  in  her  beak. 

Neither  of  us  stirred  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  the 
other  parent  made  no  sound,  though  he  lingered  but 
a  few  yards  away. 

Presently  I  slowly  withdrew,  and  sat  down  a  few 
paces  away.    The  male  bird  now  became  quite  un- 

197 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

easy,  and  flitted  from  bush  to  bush  and  uttered  his 
alarm  chirp.  The  mother  bird  never  stirred.  I  could 
see  her  loaded  beak  from  where  I  sat.  In  two  or 
three  minutes  she  dropped  or  otherwise  disposed  of 
her  morsel,  but  kept  her  place  above  her  young. 
Then  her  mate,  taking  his  cue  from  her,  quieted 
down  and  soon  disappeared  from  view. 

After  long  waiting  I  approached  the  nest,  and 
pausing  ten  feet  away,  regarded  it  some  moments. 
The  bird  never  stirred.  Then  I  came  nearer,  and 
when  I  sat  down  w  ithin  four  or  five  feet  of  the  nest, 
the  bird  flew  out  upon  the  ground  before  me,  and 
sought  to  lure  me  away  by  practicing  the  old  confi- 
dence game  that  birds  so  often  resort  to  on  such 
occasions. 

She  was  seized  with  incipient  paralysis  in  her 
members ;  she  dragged  herself  about  upon  the 
ground ;  she  quivered  and  tottered  and  panted  with 
open  beak,  and  seemed  on  the  point  of  going  all  to 
pieces.  Seeing  this  game  did  not  work  and  that  I 
remained  unmoved,  she  suddenly  changed  her  tac- 
tics ;  she  flew  up  to  a  limb  and  gave  me  a  piece  of  her 
mind  in  no  equivocal  terms.  This  brought  the  male, 
and  true  to  his  name,  he  had  a  worm  in  his  beak. 

Both  now  joined  in  the  scolding,  and  the  rumpus 
attracted  a  vireo  to  the  spot,  who  came  to  see  what 
the  danger  really  w^as.  But  evidently  the  warblers 
regarded  his  presence  as  an  intrusion. 

The  nest  was  in  the  edge  of  the  bank  where  the 

198 


TWO    BIRDS'-NESTS 

soil  was  broken  away  a  little,  and  was  mainly  com- 
posed of  dry  leaves  and  pine  needles.  The  young, 
five  in  number,  were  probably  a  week  old. 

I  came  again  the  next  day,  and  found  the  bird  sit- 
ting on  the  edge  of  the  nest  as  before,  and  ready, 
when  I  disturbed  her,  with  the  same  arts  to  lure  me 
away.  I  paid  frequent  visits  to  the  place  thereafter 
till  the  young  had  flown. 

The  song  of  the  male  —  a  little  shuffling  chant 
much  like  that  of  Chippy  —  was  frequently  heard. 
This  warbler  may  be  instantly  known  by  its  oliva- 
ceous color  and  the  four  sharp  black  stripes  on  its 
buff -colored  head.  It  is  one  of  the  prettiest  and  most 
interesting  of  the  warblers. 


VII 
AUGUST  DAYS 

ONE  of  our  well-known  poets,  in  personifying 
August,  represents  her  as  coming  with  daisies 
in  her  hair.  But  an  August  daisy  is  a  sorry  affair; 
it  is  little  more  than  an  empty,  or  partly  empty, 
seed-vessel.  In  the  Northern  States  the  daisy  is 
in  her  girlhood  and  maidenhood  in  June;  she  be- 
comes very  matronly  early  in  July,  —  fat,  faded, 
prosaic,  —  and  by  or  before  August  she  is  practi- 
cally defunct.  I  recall  no  flower  whose  career  is  more 
typical  of  the  life,  say,  of  the  average  European 
peasant  woman,  or  of  the  women  of  barbarous 
tribes,  its  grace  and  youthfulness  pass  so  quickly 
into  stoutness,  obesity,  and  withered  old  age.  How 
positively  girlish  and  taking  is  the  daisy  during  the 
first  few  days  of  its  blooming,  while  its  snow- 
white  rays  yet  stand  straight  up  and  shield  its  ten- 
der centre  somewhat  as  a  hood  shields  a  girl's  face! 
Presently  it  becomes  a  perfect  disk  and  bares  its 
face  to  the  sun;  this  is  the  stage  of  its  young 
womanhood.  Then  its  yellow  centre  —  its  body  — 
begins  to  swell  and  become  gross,  the  rays  slowly 
turn  brown,  and  finally  wither  up  and  drop.    It  is  a 

201 


FAR   AND   NEAR 

flower  no  longer,  but  a  receptacle  packed  with 
ripening  seeds. 

A  relative  of  the  daisy,  the  orange-colored  hawk- 
weed  {Hieracium  aurantiacum)  y  which  within  the 
past  twenty  years  has  spread  far  and  wide  over 
New  York  and  New  England,  is  often  at  the  height 
of  its  beauty  in  August,  when  its  deep  vivid  orange 
is  a  delight  to  the  eye.  It  repeats  in  our  meadows 
and  upon  our  hilltops  the  flame  of  the  columbine  of 
May,  intensified.  The  personified  August  with  these 
flowers  in  her  hair  would  challenge  our  admiration 
and  not  our  criticism.  Unlike  the  daisy,  it  quickly 
sprouts  again  when  cut  down  with  the  grass  in  the 
meadows,  and  renews  its  bloom.  Parts  of  New  Eng- 
land, at  least,  have  a  native  August  flower  quite  as 
brilhant  as  the  hawkweed  just  described,  and  far 
less  a  usurper;  I  refer  to  meadow-beauty,  or  rhexia, 
found  near  the  coast,  which  suggests  a  purple 
evening  primrose. 

Nature  has,  for  the  most  part,  lost  her  delicate 
tints  in  August.  She  is  tanned,  hirsute,  freckled,  like 
one  long  exposed  to  the  sun.  Her  touch  is  strong 
and  vivid.  The  coarser,  commoner  wayside  flowers 
now  appear,  —  vervain,  eupatorium,  mimulus,  the 
various  mints,  asters,  golden-rod,  thistles,  fireweed, 
mulleins,  motherwort,  catnip,  blueweed,  turtle- 
head,  sunflowers,  clematis,  evening  primrose,  lobe- 
lia, gerardia,  and,  in  the  marshes  of  the  lower  Hud- 
son, marshmallows,  and  vast  masses  of  the  purple 

202 


AUGUST   DAYS 

loosestrife.  Mass  and  intensity  take  the  place  of 
delicacy  and  furtiveness.  The  spirit  of  Nature  has 
grown  bold  and  aggressive;  it  is  rank  and  coarse; 
she  flaunts  her  weeds  in  our  faces.  She  wears  a 
thistle  on  her  bosom.  But  I  must  not  forget  the  deli- 
cate  rose  gerardia,  which  she  also  wears  upon  her 
bosom,  and  which  suggests  that,  before  the  season 
closes,  Nature  is  getting  her  hand  ready  for  her  deli- 
cate spring  flora.  With  me  this  gerardia  Hues  open 
paths  over  dry  knolls  in  the  woods,  and  its  little 
purple  bells  and  smooth,  slender  leaves  form  one  of 
the  most  exquisite  tangles  of  flowers  and  foliage  of 
the  whole  summer.  It  is  August  matching  the  color 
and  delicacy  of  form  of  the  fringed  polygala  of  May. 
I  know  a  half-wild  field  bordering  a  wood,  which  is 
red  with  strawberries  in  June  and  pink  with  gerar- 
dia in  August. 

One  may  still  gather  the  matchless  white  pond- 
lily  in  this  month,  though  this  flower  is  in  the  height 
of  its  glory  earlier  in  the  season,  except  in  the  north- 
ern lakes. 

A  very  delicate  and  beautiful  marsh  flower  that 
may  be  found  on  the  borders  of  lakes  in  northern 
New  York  and  New  England  is  the  horned  bladder- 
wort, — yellow,  fragrant,  and  striking  in  form,  like  a 
miniature  old-fashioned  bonnet,  when  bonnets  cov- 
ered the  head  and  projected  beyond  the  face,  instead 
of  hovering  doubtfully  above  the  scalp.  The  horn 
curves  down  and  out  Uke  a  long  chin  from  a  face  hid- 

203 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

den  within  the  bonnet.  I  have  found  this  rare  flower 
in  the  Adirondacks  and  in  Maine.  It  may  doubtless 
be  found  in  Canada,  and  in  Michigan  and  Wis- 
consin. Britton  and  Brown  say  "  south  to  Florida 
and  Texas."  It  is  the  most  fragrant  August  flower 
known  to  me.  This  month  has  not  nrany  fragrant 
flowers  to  boast  of.  Besides  the  above  and  the  pond- 
lily  I  recall  two  others,  —  the  small  purple  fringed- 
orchis  and  a  species  of  lady's-tresses  (Spiraiithes 
ccrnua). 

The  characteristic  odors  of  August  are  from  fruit 
—  grapes,  peaches,  apples,  pears,  melons  —  and  the 
ripening  grain;  yes,  and  the  blooming  buckwheat. 
Of  all  the  crop  and  farm  odors  this  last  is  the  most 
pronounced  and  honeyed,  rivaling  that  of  the  flow  er- 
ing  locust  of  May  and  of  the  linden  in  July. 

The  mistakes  of  our  lesser  poets  in  dealing  with 
nature  themes  might  furnish  me  with  many  a  text  in 
this  connection.  Thus  one  of  them  makes  the  call  of 
the  phoebe-bird  prominent  in  August.  One  w^ould 
infer  from  the  poem  that  the  phoebe  was  not  heard 
during  any  other  month.  Now  it  is  possible  that 
the  poet  heard  the  phoebe  in  August,  but  if  so,  the 
occurrence  was  exceptional,  and  it  is  more  proba- 
ble that  it  was  the  wood  pewee  that  he  heard.  The 
phoebe  is  most  noticeable  in  April  and  early  May, 
and  its  characteristic  call  is  not  often  heard  till  the 
sun  is  well  up  in  the  sky.  Most  of  our  song-birds 
are  silent  in  August,  or  sing  only  fitfully,  as  do  the 

204 


AUGUST   DAYS 

song  sparrow  and  the  oriole.  The  real  August  song- 
ster, and  the  bird  that  one  comes  to  associate  with 
the  slow,  drowsy  days,  is  the  indigo-bird.  After 
midsummer  its  song,  delivered  from  the  top  of  some 
small  tree  in  the  pasture  or  a  bushy  field,  falls  upon 
the  ear  with  a  peculiar  languid,  midsummery  effect. 
The  boys  and  girls  gathering  raspberries  and  black- 
berries hear  it ;  the  stroller  through  the  upland  fields, 
or  lounger  in  the  shade  of  maple  or  linden,  probably 
hears  no  bird-song  but  this,  if  he  even  distinguishes 
this  from  the  more  strident  insect  voices.  The  plum- 
age of  the  bird  is  more  or  less  faded  by  this  time, 
the  vivid  indigo  of  early  June  is  lightly  brushed  with 
a  dull  sooty  shade,  but  the  song  is  nearly  as  full  as 
the  earlier  strain,  and  in  the  dearth  of  bird  voices  is 
even  more  noticeable.  I  do  not  now  recall  that  any 
of  our  poets  have  embalmed  this  little  cerulean  song- 
ster in  their  verse. 

One  may  also  occasionally  hear  the  red-eyed  vireo 
in  August,  but  it  is  low  tide  with  him  too.  His  song 
has  a  reminiscent  air,  like  that  of  the  indigo.  The 
whip-poor-will  calls  fitfully  in  this  month,  and  may 
be  heard  even  in  September;  but  he  quickly  checks 
himself,  as  if  he  knew  it  was  out  of  season.  In  the 
Adirondacks  I  have  heard  the  speckled  Canada 
warbler  in  August,  and  the  white-throated  sparrow. 
But  nearly  all  the  migratory  birds  begin  to  get  rest- 
less during  this  month.  They  cut  loose  from  their 
nesting-haunts  and  drift  through  the  woods  in  pro- 

205 


FAR   AND   NEAR 

misciiods  bands,  and  many  of  them  start  on  their 
southern  journey.  From  my  woods  along  the  Hud- 
son the  warblers  all  disappear  before  the  middle  of 
the  month.  Some  of  them  are  probably  in  hiding 
during  the  moulting  season.  The  orioles  begin  to 
move  south  about  the  middle  of  the  month,  and  by 
the  first  of  September  the  last  of  them  have  passed. 
They  occasionally  sing  in  a  suppressed  tone  during 
this  migration,  probably  the  young  males  trying  their 
instruments.  It  is  at  this  time,  when  full  of  froUc 
and  mischief,  like  any  other  emigrants  with  faces 
set  to  new  lands,  that  they  make  such  havoc  in  the 
Hudson  River  vineyards.  They  seem  to  puncture 
the  grapes  in  the  spirit  of  pure  wantonness,  or  as  if 
on  a  wager  as  to  who  can  puncture  the  most.  The 
swallows  —  the  cliff  and  the  barn  —  all  leave  in 
August,  usually  Dy  the  20th,  though  the  swift  may 
be  seen  as  late  as  October.  I  notice  that  our  poets 
often  detain  the  swallows  much  beyond  the  proper 
date.  One  makes  them  perch  upon  the  barn  in  Oc- 
tober. Another  makes  them  noisy  about  the  eaves 
in  Indian  summer.  An  English  poet  makes  the  swal- 
low go  at  November's  bidding.  The  tree  swallow  may 
often  be  seen  migrating  in  countless  numbers  along 
the  coast  in  early  October,  but  long  ere  this  date  the 
barn  and  the  cliif  swallows  are  in  tropical  climes. 
They  begin  to  flock,  and  apparently  rehearse  the 
migrating  programme,  in  July. 

The  boboHnks  go  in  early  August  with  the  red- 

206 


AUGUST   DAYS 

shouldered  starlings,  and  along  the  Potomac  and 
Chesapeake  Bay  become  the  reed-birds  of  sports- 
men. One  often  hears  them  in  this  month  calling 
from  high  in  the  air  as  they  journey  southward  from 
more  northern  latitudes. 

About  the  most  noticeable  bird  of  August  in  New 
York  and  New  England  is  the  yellowbird,  or  gold- 
finch. This  is  one  of  the  last  birds  to  nest,  seldom 
hatching  its  egg3  till  late  in  July.  It  seems  as  if  a 
particular  kind  of  food  were  required  to  rear  its 
brood,  which  cannot  be  had  at  an  earlier  date.  The 
seed  of  the  common  thistle  is  apparently  its  main- 
stay. There  is  no  prettier  sight  at  this  season  than 
a  troop  of  young  goldfinches,  led  by  their  parents, 
going  from  thistle  to  thistle  along  the  roadside  and 
pecking  the  ripe  heads  to  pieces  for  the  seed.  The 
plaintive  call  of  the  young  is  one  of  the  charac- 
teristic August  sounds.  Their  nests  are  frequently 
destroyed,  or  the  eggs  thrown  from  them,  by  the 
terrific  July  thunder-showers.  Last  season  a  pair 
had  a  nest  on  the  slender  branch  of  a  maple  in  front 
of  the  door  of  the  house  where  I  was  staying.  The 
eggs  were  being  deposited,  and  the  happy  pair  had 
many  a  loving  conversation  about  them  many  times 
each  day,  when  one  afternoon  a  very  violent  storm 
arose  which  made  the  branches  of  the  trees  stream 
out  like  wildly  disheveled  hair,  quite  turning  over 
those  on  the  windward  side,  and  emptying  the  pretty 
nest  of  its  eggs.  In  such  cases  the  birds  build  anew, 

207 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

• — a  delay  that  may  bring  the  incubation  into 
August.  Such  an  accident  had  probably  befallen  a 
pair  of  wliich  I  one  season  made  this  note  in  my 
note-book,  under  date  of  August  6 :  — 

"A  goldfinches'  nest  in  the  maple-tree  near  the 
window  Avhere  I  write,  the  female  sitting  on  four  pale 
bluish-white  eggs  ;  the  male  feeds  her  on  the  nest ; 
whenever  she  hears  his  voice  she  calls  incessantly, 
much  after  the  manner  of  the  young  birds, — the 
only  case  I  recall  of  the  sitting  bird  calling  while  in 
the  act  of  incubation.  The  male  evidently  brings  the 
food  in  his  crop,  or  at  least  well  back  in  his  beak  or 
throat,  as  it  takes  him  several  moments  to  deliver  it 
to  his  mate,  which  he  does  by  separate  morsels.  The 
male,  when  disturbed  by  a  rival,  utters  the  same 
note  as  he  pursues  his  enemy  from  point  to  point 
that  the  female  does  when  calling  to  him.  It  does 
not  sound  like  a  note  of  anger,  but  of  love  and  con- 
fidence." 

As  the  bird-songs  fail,  the  insect  harpers  and  fid- 
dlers begin.  August  is  the  heyday  of  these  musi- 
cians. The  katydid  begins  to  "  work  her  chromatic 
reed  "  early  in  the  month,  and  with  her  comes  that 
pulsing,  purring  monotone  of  the  little  pale  tree- 
crickets.  These  last  fill  the  August  twilight  with  a 
soft,  rhythmic  undertone  of  sound,  which  forms  a 
sort  of  background  for  the  loud,  strident  notes  of  the 
katydids. 

August,  too,  is  the  month  of  the  screaming,  high* 

208 


AUGUST   DAYS 

sailing  hawks.  The  young  are  now  fully  fledged, 
and  they  love  to  circle  and  scream  far  above  the 
mountain's  crest  all  the  tranquil  afternoon.  Some- 
times one  sees  them  against  the  slowly  changing 
and  swelling  thunder-heads  that  so  often  burden 
the  horizon  at  this  season. 

It  is  on  the  dewy  August  mornings  that  one  notices 
the  webs  of  the  little  spiders  in  the  newly  mown 
meadows.  They  look  like  gossamer  napkins  spread 
out  upon  the  grass,  —  thousands  of  napkins  far 
and  near.  The  farmer  looks  upon  it  as  a  sign  of 
rain;  but  the  napkins  are  there  every  day;  only  a 
heavier  dew  makes  them  more  pronounced  one 
morning  than  another. 

Along  the  paths  where  my  walks  oftenest  lead  me 
in  August,  in  rather  low,  bushy,  wet  grounds,  the 
banner  flower  is  a  species  of  purple  boneset,  or  trum- 
pet-weed, so  called,  I  suppose,  because  its  stem  is 
hollow.  It  often  stands  up  seven  or  eight  feet  high, 
crowned  with  a  great  mass  of  dull  purple  bloom,  and 
leads  the  ranks  of  lesser  weeds  and  plants  like  a 
great  chieftain.  Its  humbler  servitors  are  white 
boneset  and  swamp  milkweed,  while  climbing  bone- 
set  trails  its  wreaths  over  the  brookside  bushes  not 
far  away.  A  much  more  choice  and  brilliant  purple, 
like  some  invasion  of  metropolitan  fashion  into  a 
rural  congregation,  is  given  to  a  near-by  marsh  by  the 
purple  loosestrife.  During  the  latter  half  of  August 
the  bog  is  all  aflame  with  it.    There  is  a  wonderful 

209 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

style  about  this  plant,  either  singly  or  in  masses.  Its 
suggestion  is  as  distinctly  feminine  as  that  of  the 
trumpet-weed  is  masculine. 

When  the  poet  personifies  August,  let  him  fill  her 
arms  with  some  of  these  flowers,  or  place  upon  her 
brows  a  spray  of  wild  clematis,  which  during  this 
month  throws  its  bridal  wreaths  so  freely  over  our 
bushy,  unkempt  waysides  and  fence  corners.  After 
you  have  crowned  and  adored  your  personified 
August  in  this  way,  then  give  the  finishing  touch 
with  the  scarlet  raceme  of  the  cardinal  flower, 
flaming  from  the  sheaf  of  ranker  growths  in  her 
arms.  How  this  brilliant  bit  of  color,  glassing 
itself  in  a  dark,  still  pool,  lights  up  and  affects  the 
vague,  shadowy  background  upon  which  it  is  pro- 
jected ! 

In  August  the  "waters  blossom."  This  is  the 
term  the  country  people  in  my  section  apply  to  a 
phenomenon  which  appears  in  the  more  sluggish 
streams  and  ponds  during  this  month.  When  ex- 
amined closely,  the  water  appears  to  be  filled  with 
particles  of  very  fine  meal.  I  suspect,  though  I  do 
not  know,  that  these  floating  particles  are  the  spores 
of  some  species  of  fresh-water  alga;  or  they  may 
be  what  are  called  zoospores.  The  algse  are  at  their 
rankest  during  August.  Great  masses  of  some 
species  commonly  called  "  frogs'  spawn  "  rise  to  the 
surface  of  the  Hudson  and  float  up  and  down  with 
the   tide,  —  green   unclean-looking   masses,  many 

210 


AUGUST    DAYS 

yards  In  extent.  The  dog-star  seems  to  invoke  these 
fermenting  masses  from  the  deep.  They  suggest 
decay,  but  they  are  only  the  riot  of  the  lower  forms 
of  vegetable  life. 

August,  too,  is  the  month  of  the  mushrooms,  — 
those  curious  abnormal  flowers  of  a  hidden  or  sub- 
terranean vegetation,  invoked  by  heat  and  moisture 
from  darkness  and  decay  as  the  summer  wanes.  Do 
they  not  suggest  something  sickly  arid  uncanny  in 
Nature?  her  unwholesome  dreams  and  night  fan- 
cies, her  pale  superstitions  ;  her  myths  and  legends 
and  occult  lore  taking  shape  in  them,  spectral  and 
fantastic,  at  times  hinting  something  libidinous  and 
unseemly:  vegetables  with  gills,  fibreless,  bloodless; 
earth-flesh,  often  offensive,  unclean,  immodest,  often 
of  rare  beauty  and  delicacy,  of  many  shades  and 
colors  —  creamy  white,  red,  yellow,  brown,  —  now 
the  hue  of  an  orange,  now  of  a  tomato,  now  of  a 
potato,  some  edible,  some  poisonous,  some  shaped 
like  spread  umbrellas,  some  like  umbrellas  reversed 
by  the  wind,  —  the  sickly  whims  and  fancies  of 
Nature,  some  imp  of  the  earth  mocking  and  tra- 
vestying the  things  of  the  day.  Under  my  evergreens 
I  saw  a  large  white  disk  struggling  up  through  the 
leaves  and  the  debris  like  the  full  moon  through 
clouds  and  vapors.  This  simile  is  doubtless  sug- 
gested to  my  mind  by  a  line  of  a  Southern  poet, 
Madison  Cawein,  which  I  look  upon  as  one  of  the 
best  descriptive  lines  in  recent  nature  poetry :  — 

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FAR   AND    NEAR 

**  The  slow  toadstool  comes  bulging,  moony  white, 
Through  loosening  loam. 

Sometimes  this  moon  of  the  loam  is  red,  or  goldeiij 
or  bronzed;  or  it  is  so  small  that  it  suggests  only  a 
star.  The  shy  wood  folk  seem  to  know  the  edible 
mushrooms,  and  I  notice  often  eat  away  the  stalk 
and  nibble  at  the  top  or  pileus. 

One  day  two  friends  came  to  see  me  with  some- 
thing wrapped  up  in  their  handkerchiefs.  They  said 
they  had  brought  their  dinner  with  them,  —  they 
had  gathered  it  in  the  woods  as  they  came  along, 
— beefsteak  mushrooms.  The  beefsteak  was  duly 
cooked  and  my  friends  ate  of  it  with  a  relish.  A  por- 
tion was  left,  which  my  dog  attacked  rather  doubt- 
ingly,  and  then  turned  away  from,  with  the  look  of 
one  who  has  been  cheated.  Mock-meat,  that  is  what 
it  was,  —  a  curious  parody  upon  a  steak,  as  the  dog 
soon  found  out.  I  know  a  man  who  boasts  of  hav- 
ing identified  and  eaten  seventy-five  different  spe- 
cies. When  the  season  is  a  good  one  for  mushrooms, 
he  snaps  his  fingers  at  the  meat  trust,  even  going  to 
the  extent  of  drying  certain  kinds  to  be  used  for 
soup  in  the  winter. 

The  decay  of  a  mushroom  parodies  that  of  real 
flesh,  —  a  kind  of  unholy  rotting  ending  in  black- 
ness and  stench.  Some  species  imitate  jelly,  —  mock 
calves'-foot  jelly,  which  soon  melts  down  and  be- 
comes an  uncanny  mass.  Occasionally  I  see  a  blue- 

212 


AUGUST   DAYS 

gilled  mushroom,  —an  infusion  of  indigo  in  its  cells. 
How  forbidding  it  looks!  Yesterday  in  the  Au^^^ust 
woods  I  saw  a  tiny  mushroom  like  a  fairy  parasol  of 
a  Japanese  type,  —  its  top  delicately  fluted. 

During  the  steaming,  dripping,  murky,  and 
muggy  dog-days  that  sometimes  come  the  latter 
half  of  August,  how  this  fungus  growth  runs  riot  in 
the  woods  and  in  the  fields  too, — a  kind  of  sacri- 
legious vegetation  mocking  Nature's  saner  and  more 
wholesome  handiwork,  —  the  flowers  of  death, 
vegetable  spectres. 

August  days  are  for  the  most  part  tranquil  days; 
the  fret  and  hurry  of  the  season  are  over.  We  are  on 
the  threshold  of  autumn.  Nature  dreams  and  med- 
itates; her  veins  no  longer  thrill  with  the  eager, 
frenzied  sap ;  she  ripens  and  hardens  her  growths ; 
she  concentrates;  she  begins  to  make  ready  for 
winter.  The  buds  for  next  year  are  formed  during 
this  month,  and  her  nuts  and  seeds  and  bulbs  finish 
storing  up  food  for  the  future  plant. 

From  my  outlook  upon  the  Hudson  the  days  are 
placid,  the  river  is  placid,  the  boughs  of  the  tree? 
gently  wag,  the  bees  make  vanishing-lines  through 
the  air.  The  passing  boats  create  a  great  commotion 
in  the  water,  converting  it  from  a  cool,  smooth, 
shadowy  surface  to  one  pulsing  and  agitated.  The 
pulsations  go  shoreward  in  long,  dark,  rolling,  glassy 
swells.  The  grapes  are  purpling  in  the  vineyard  ; 
the  apples  and  pears  are  coloring  in  the  orchard  ; 

213 


FAR  AND  NEAR 

the  corn  is  glazing  in  the  field;  the  oats  are  ripe 
for  the  cradle ;  grasshoppers  poise  and  shuffle  above 
the  dry  road;  yellow  butterflies  mount  upward  face 
to  face  ;  thistledown  drifts  by  on  the  breeze  ;  a 
sparrow  sings  fitfully  now  and  then ;  dusty  wheelmen 
go  by  on  their  summer  vacation  tours  ;  boats  ap- 
pear upon  the  river  loaded  with  gay  excursionists, 
and  on  every  hand  Ihe  stress  and  urge  of  life  have 
abated. 


VIII 
BABES  IN  THE  WOODS 

ONE  day  in  early  May,  Ted  and  I  made  an  expe- 
dition to  the  Shattega,  astill,  dark,  deep  stream 
that  loiters  silently  through  the  woods  not  far  from 
my  cabin.  As  we  paddled  along,  we  were  on  the  alert 
for  any  bit  of  wild  life  of  bird  or  beast  that  might 
turn  up.  Ted  was  especially  on  the  lookout  for 
birds'-nests,  and  many  times  I  pushed  the  boat  up 
close  to  the  bank  that  he  might  explore  with  his  slen- 
der arm  the  cavities  the  woodpeckers  had  made  in 
the  dead  tree  trunks  that  bordered  or  overhung  the 
stream.  Only  once  did  he  bring  out  a  handful  of  ma- 
terial that  suggested  a  bird's-nest,  and  on  examining 
it,  sure  enough,  there  was  a  bird's  e^g^  the  egg  of  the 
chickadee.  The  boy  had  clutched  the  nest,  egg  and 
all*  and  had  made  such  a  wreck  of  the  former  that 
we  concluded  it  was  useless  to  try  to  restore  it  and 
return  it  to  the  cavity.  So  Ted  added  the  egg  to  his 
collection,  and,  I  suspect,  regretted  the  result  of  his 
eager  dive  into  the  hollow  stub  less  than  I  did. 

There  were  so  many  of  these  abandoned  wood- 
pecker chambers  in  the  small  dead  trees  as  we  went 
along  that  I  determined  to  secure  the  section  of  a  tree 

215 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

containing  a  good  one  to  take  home  and  put  up  for 
the  bluebirds.  *'  Why  don't  the  bluebirds  occupy  them 
here  ?  "  inquired  Ted.  "  Oh,"  I  rephed,  "  bluebirds 
do  not  come  so  far  into  the  woods  as  this.  They 
prefer  nesting-places  in  the  open,  and  near  human 
habitations."  After  carefully  scrutinizing  several  of 
the  trees,  we  at  last  saw  one  that  seemed  to  fill  the  bill. 
It  was  a  small  dead  tree  trunk  seven  or  eight  inches 
in  diameter,  that  leaned  out  over  the  water,  and 
from  which  the  top  had  been  broken.  The  hole, 
round  and  firm,  was  ten  or  twelve  feet  above  us. 
After  considerable  effort  I  succeeded  in  breaking  the 
stub  off  near  the  ground,  and  brought  it  down  into 
the  boat.  "  Just  the  thing,"  I  said  ;  "  surely  the  blue- 
birds will  prefer  this  to  an  artificial  box."  But,  lo 
and  behold,  it  already  had  bluebirds  in  it!  We 
had  not  heard  a  sound  or  seen  a  feather  till  the 
trunk  was  in  our  hands,  when,  on  peering  into  the 
cavity,  we  discovered  two  young  bluebirds  about 
half  grown.  This  was  a  predicament  indeed!  My 
venture  had  proved  to  be  more  rash  and  regretta- 
ble than  Ted's. 

Well,  the  only  thing  w^e  could  do  was  to  stand  the 
tree  trunk  up  again  as  well  as  we  could,  and  as  near 
as  we  could  to  where  it  had  stood  before.  This  was 
no  easy  thing.  But  after  a  time  we  had  it  fairly 
well  replaced,  one  end  standing  in  the  mud  of  the 
shallow  water  and  the  other  resting  against  a  tree. 
This  left  the  hole  to  the  nest  about  ten  feet  below  and 

216 


BABES   IN   THE    WOODS 

to  one  side  of  its  former  position.  Just  then  we  heard 
the  voice  of  one  of  the  parent  birds,  and  we  quickly 
paddled  to  the  other  side  of  the  stream,  fifty  feet 
away,  to  watch  her  proceedings,  sayin<;  to  each  other, 
"Too  bad,"  "Too  bad."  The  mother  bird  bad  a 
large  beetle  in  her  beak.  She  alighted  upon  a  limb  a 
few  feet  above  the  former  site  of  her  nest,  looked 
down  upon  us,  uttered  a  note  or  two,  and  then 
dropped  down  confidently  to  the  point  in  the  vacant 
air  where  the  entrance  to  her  nest  had  been  but  a  few 
moments  before.  Here  she  hovered  on  the  wing  a 
second  or  two,  looking  for  something  that  was  not 
there,  and  then  returned  to  the  perch  she  had  just 
left,  apparently  not  a  little  disturbed.  She  hammered 
the  beetle  rather  excitedly  upon  the  liml)  a  few  times, 
as  if  it  were  in  some  way  at  fault,  then  dropped 
down  to  try  for  her  nest  again.  Only  vacant  air 
there !  She  hovers  and  hovers,  her  blue  wings  flicker- 
ing in  the  checkered  light;  surely  that  precious  hole 
must  be  there;  but  no,  again  she  is  baffled,  and  again 
she  returns  to  her  perch,  and  mauls  the  poor  beetle 
till  it  must  be  reduced  to  a  pulp.  Then  she  makes 
a  third  attempt,  then  a  fourth,  and  a  fifth,  and  a 
sixth,  till  she  becomes  very  much  excited.  "What 
could  have  happened  ?  am  I  dreaming  ?  has  that 
beetle  hoodooed  me  ? "  she  seems  to  say,  and  in 
her  dismay  she  lets  the  bug  drop,  and  looks  l^ewil- 
deredly  about  her.  Then  she  flies  away  through  the 
woods,  calling.    "Going  for  her  mate,"  I  said  to 

217 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

Ted.    "  She  is  in  deep  trouble,  and  she  wants  sym- 
pathy and  help." 

In  a  few  minutes  we  heard  her  mate  answer!  and 
presently  the  two  birds  came  hurrying  to  the  spot, 
both  with  loaded  beaks.  They  perched  upon  the 
familiar  limb  above  the  site  of  the  nest,  and  the  mate 
seemed  to  say,  "My  dear,  what  has  happened  to 
you  ?  I  can  find  that  nest."  And  he  dived  down,  and 
brought  up  in  the  empty  air  just  as  the  mother  had 
done.  How  he  winnowed  it  with  his  eager  wings! 
how  he  seemed  to  bear  on  to  that  blank  space !  His 
mate  sat  regarding  him  intently,  confident,  I  think, 
that  he  would  find  the  clew.  But  he  did  not.  Baffled 
and  excited,  he  returned  to  the  perch  beside  her. 
Then  she  tried  again,  then  he  rushed  down  once 
more,  then  they  both  assaulted  the  place,  but  it 
would  not  give  up  its  secret.  They  talked,  they  en- 
couraged each  other,  and  they  kept  up  the  search, 
now  one,  now  the  other,  now  both  together.  Some- 
tim<is  they  dropped  down  to  within  a  few  feet  of  the 
entrance  to  the  nest,  and  we  thought  they  would 
surely  find  it.  No,  their  minds  and  eyes  were  in- 
tent only  upon  that  square  foot  of  space  where  the 
nest  had  been.  Soon  they  withdrew  to  a  large  limb 
many  feet  higher  up,  and  seemed  to  say  to  them- 
selves, "Well,  it  is  not  there,  but  it  must  be  here 
somewhere  ;  let  us  look  about."  A  few  minutes 
elapsed,  when  we  saw  the  mother  bird  spring  from 
her  perch  and  go  straight  as  an  arrow  to  the  nest. 

218 


BABES    IN   THE   WOODS 

Her  maternal  eye  had  proved  the  quicker.  She  had 
found  her  young.  Something  Hke  reason  and  com- 
mon-sense had  come  to  her  rescue;  she  had  taken 
time  to  look  about,  and  behold!  there  was  that 
precious  doorway.  She  thrust  her  head  into  it,  then 
sent  back  a  call  to  her  mate,  then  went  farther  in, 
then  withdrew.  "  Yes,  it  is  true,  they  are  here,  they 
are  here!"  Then  she  went  in  again,  gave  them  the 
food  in  her  beak,  and  then  gave  place  to  her  mate, 
who,  after  similar  demonstrations  of  joy,  also  gave 
them  his  morsel. 

Ted  and  I  breathed  freer.  A  burden  had  been 
taken  from  our  minds  and  hearts,  and  we  went  cheer- 
fully on  our  way.  We  had  learned  something,  too; 
we  had  learned  that  when  in  the  deep  woods  you 
think  of  bluebirds,  bluebirds  may  be  nearer  you 
than  you  think. 

The  young  rabbits  I  saw  one  day  in  early  May 
on  the  edge  of  a  clearing  in  the  woods  suggested 
babies  quite  as  much  as  the  bluebirds  did.  The 
mother  had  come  out  of  the  cover  of  the  rocks  and 
bushes  and  made  her  nest  on  a  dry  knoll  in  the 
edge  of  a  muck  swamp  where  the  ground  had  been 
cleared  only  a  week  or  two  before.  The  man  at 
work  with  the  grubbing-hoe  came  near  striking  into 
the  nest,  when  the  young  sprang  out.  He  caught 
them  and  put  them  back  under  their  cover  and 
resumed  his  work  in  another  place.    In  the  aftcr- 

219 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

noon  I  happened  that  way.  He  told  me  what  he  had 
found,  and  pointed  to  the  spot  a  few  yards  off.  I  ap- 
proached the  place  cautiously  and  began  to  scan 
the  ground  at  my  feet.  There  was  no  bush  or  stump 
or  weed  or  stone  to  distract  my  eye,  —  only  the  back 
of  a  small  knoll,  brown  with  fern  stubble  and  dry 
fern  leaves. 

"I  can  see  no  nest  or  rabbits  here,"  I  said  to 
George.  "Where  are  they?"  So  he  came  up,  and 
stooping  over,  lifted  up  a  tiny  coverlid  of  dry  fern 
stalks,  in  which  were  mingled  tufts  of  gray  hair,  and 
disclosed  a  small  depression  in  the  ground,  where 
sat  three  little  rabbits  that  one  might  almost  have 
held  in  the  palm  of  his  hand.  Their  ears  were  de- 
pressed, their  eyes  shone,  and  their  hearts  beat  fast. 
In  a  moment  they  sprang  out ;  we  covered  them  with 
our  hats  and  hands,  and  restored  them  to  the  nest 
as  gently  as  we  could,  pulling  their  blanket  over 
them.  But  they  pushed  their  heads  up  through  it  and 
between  our  fingers  in  their  efforts  to  escape.  We 
held  them  down  and  finally  quieted  them,  and  then 
carefully  withdrew.  I  do  not  know  how  long  they 
remained  in  the  nest,  but  when  I  came  the  next  day 
with  some  friends,  we  found  the  nest  empty.  One 
of  my  friends,  who  was  a  naturalist,  picked  up  the 
cover  of  ferns  and  hair  and  examined  it,  and  let  it 
fall  in  pieces  to  the  ground.  The  weather  was  very 
warm;  we  fancied  the  mother  had  taken  her  fam- 
ily into  the  bush.   A  night  or  two  after  was  very 

220 


BABES    IN   THE    WOODS 

:old,  with  heavy  frost.  The  day  following  I  again 
passed  the  nest,  and  was  surprised  to  see  two  little 
rabbits  sitting  side  by  side  in  it.  As  they  did  not 
move,  I  touched  them,  and  found  them  dead  and 
cold.  The  mother,  on  the  approach  of  the  cold  wave, 
had  evidently  brought  her  young  back  to  the  nest, 
and  having  no  cover  over  them,  they  had  perished 
of  the  frost.  One  would  have  thought  she  would 
stay  by  them  to  keep  them  warm,  or  else  cover  them 
with  the  fragments  of  the  old  blanket.  Though  of 
course  it  is  possible  that  she  herself  had  fallen  a 
victim  to  some  enemy,  and  that  the  young  had  died 
of  hunger,  seeking  in  their  last  extremity  the  cradle 
in  v/liich  they  were  born.  The  fate  of  the  third  one 
I  do  not  know.  I  left  the  two  babies  in  the  nest  as  I 
had  found  them. 

On  the  third  day  I  came  that  way  again  with  Ted. 
To  my  surprise,  the  two  baby  rabbits  had  disap- 
peared. But  what  was  that  sticking  up  through  the 
soil  in  the  bottom  of  the  cavity?  It  was  the  end 
of  one  tiny  ear,  and  beneath  it  we  found  the  two 
young  rabbits  carefully  buried.  We  exhumed  them 
and  brought  them  forth.  They  had  been  literally 
buried.  What  or  who  had  performed  these  last  sad 
rites?  The  mother?  I  know  not.  Not  a  hair  of 
them  had  been  injured,  as  far  as  we  could  see,  but 
the  little  bodies  had  been  carefully  put  from  sight, 
not  by  the  use  of  leaves,  as  the  robins  covered  the 
children  in  the  nursery  tale,  but  by  soil.   We  re- 

221 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

placed  them  in  their  double  grave  and  went  on  our 
way. 

It  has  since  occurred  to  me  that  this  burjang  was 
probably  the  work  of  a  species  of  beetle,  which  re^ 
moved  the  ground  beneath  them,  letting  the  bodies 
settle  into  the  earth. 


IX 

A  LOST  FEBRUARY 

WE  lost  February  and  found  August,  for 
Jamaica  is  a  country  cursed  with  perpetual 
summer.  In  four  days  we  steamed  straight  through 
two  seasons.  When  we  left  Philadelphia  on  the  30th 
of  January,  1902,  the  rigors  of  midwinter  were 
upon  us,  a  typical  northeast  snowstorm  was  settling 
down  to  its  best  work,  the  mercury  was  low  in  the 
teens,  the  ship's  decks  were  piled  with  snow,  and  the 
friends  that  came  to  see  us  off  shivered  in  their 
warmest  wraps.  The  steamer  made  her  way  slowly 
through  the  drifting  ice  and  sodden  snow  sheets  that 
covered  the  Delaware,  and  did  not  reach  the  clear 
waters  of  the  bay  till  night  had  fallen. 

The  next  day  winter  seemed  far  behind  us.  We 
were  in  May;  the  day  after  we  ran  into  June,  and 
the  shade  of  the  awnings  began  to  be  acceptable ;  the 
third  day  we  were  in  July ;  the  captain  blossomed 
out  in  his  white  duck  suit;  we  sought  the  shade  of 
the  ship  eagerly  ;  on  the  fourth  day  it  was  August, 
and  August  it  continued  all  the  while  that  we  were 
in  Jamaica. 

On  the  third  day,  in  the  July  w^eather,  as  I  came 

223 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

up  on  deck  in  the  morning,  I  caught  my  first  sight 
of  tropic  seas,  —  emerald,  indigo,  violet,  blending 
and  shifting  there  over  the  surface  of  the  placid 
water,  and  suggesting  some  realm  of  fable  and 
romance. 

AYhat  are  those  white  birds  that  go  in  loose  flocks, 

skimming  the  surface  of  the  water,  then  suddenly 

disappearing  ?  a  snowbird  where  snow  never  falls  ? 

Then,  as  more  appear,  it  suddenly  dawns  upon  me 

that  I  am  seeing  my  first  flying-fish.    No  bird  has 

such  a  strenuous,  machine-like  flight  as  that.    I  am 

on  the  shady  side  of  the  ship,  and  the  afternoon  sun, 

falling  upon  the  winged  fishes,  makes  them,  against 

the  deep  blue  of  the  sea,  appear  almost  snow  white. 

Every  few  minutes,  one  or  two,  or  a  dozen,  would 

suddenly  break  from  the  water  and  go  spinning  away 

from  the  ship  as  straight  as  arrows,  striking  the  water 

again  several  hundred  feet  away.    It  is  not  the  flight 

of  a  bird  but  of  a  toy  machine,  something  wound  up 

and,  if  rightly  launched,  calculated  to  go  fifty  or  one 

hundred  yards  in  a  right  line.  It  is  a  tour  de  force. 

There  is  no  freedom  or  mastery  in  it  as  in  a  bird's 

fliirht.    It  reminds  one  of  the  excursions  of  certain 

persons  into  poetry,  —  my  own,  for  instance.    How 

determined  it  is !  but  how  restricted  and  mechanical ! 

Sometimes  the  flyer  would  suddenly  collapse  after  a 

few  feet,  as  if  it  had  not  launched  itself  at  just  the 

right  angle.    Often  it  would  cut  through  the  crests 

of  the  small  waves,  never  swerving  from  a  right 

224 


A    LOST   FEBRUARY 

line.  No  power  to  swoop,  or  soar,  or  ride  the  air; 
scales  instead  of  feathers;  fins  in  lieu  of  quills;  a 
creature  out  of  its  element,  making  surprising  head- 
way there  for  a  brief  moment;  very  pretty  and 
novel,  but,  I  fancy,  showing  none  of  the  grace  and 
mastery  that  it  does  beneath  the  wave.  At  night  one 
fell  upon  the  deck  of  the  ship,  caught  up  and  car- 
ried there,  the  officer  said,  by  a  gust  of  wind.  I  think 
an  ingenious  person  might  construct  a  tin  fish  with 
wings  that  would  spin  through  the  air  in  much  tlie 
same  way. 

The  flight  of  the  fish  is  evidently  its  play,  and  not 
its  serious  business  in  life,  though  it  is  suggested 
that  it  is  also  a  means  of  enabling  it  to  escape  its 
enemies.  These  fish  seemed  on  this  occasion  to  be 
racing  with  one  another,  like  the  dolphins,  or  as  if 
on  a  wager  as  to  which  could  stay  in  the  air  the 
longest  and  cover  the  greatest  distance. 

If,  in  the  evolution  of  animal  life  upon  the  globe, 
the  birds  emerged  from  the  fishes  and  reptiles,  as 
the  biologists  teach,  is  this  sport  of  the  flying-fish  nil 
that  now  remains  of  the  grand  impulse  tliat  brought 
about  that  transformation  ?  An  upward  striving  of 
the  creative  energy  that  changed  scales  into  feathers, 
and  fins  into  wings,  and  peopled  the  air  with  the 
thousand  forms  of  bird  life,  now  sur\4ving  only  in 
this  pretty  and  odd  freak  of  the  flying-fish  ? 

On  the  fourth  day,  in  the  midsummer  tempera- 
ture, we  began  to  thread  our  way  amid  the  tropic  or 

225 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

serai  tropic  islands,  the  Bahamas,  —  San  Salvador 
there  diraly  seen  on  our  right,  and,  later.  Crooked 
Island  in  fuller  view  upon  our  left.  Soon  the  moun- 
tains of  Cuba  were  dim  shadows  there  to  the  west 
of  us,  and  on  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day,  the  Blue 
INIountains  of  Jamaica  were  dimly  seen  on  the 
southern  horizon.  A  few  hours  later  they  stood  up 
like  larger  Catskills,  presenting,  in  their  higher 
peaks,  much  the  same  outlines. 

The  harbor  of  Port  Antonio,  which  we  entered  in 
mid-afternoon,  is  like  a  pocket  in  a  woman's  dress; 
ycu  would  never  suspect  its  presence.  Tucked  away 
in  one  of  the  folds  of  the  mountainous  coast,  it 
makes  no  sign  till  the  bow  of  the  ship  begins  to  poke 
its  way  in.  Small  and  cozy  and  picturesque,  as  I 
looked  down  at  the  water  against  the  steamer's 
side,  it  seemed  as  ])lue  and  opaque  as  blue  paint. 
The  dense,  stiff,  shining  foliage  of  the  vegetation 
upon  the  slopes  about  us  and  the  rows  of  cocoanut 
palms  upon  the  beach  were  novel  sights  to  northern 
eyes. 

How  absurd  seemed  the  woolen  blankets  and  over- 
coats we  were  obliged  to  carry  to  our  lodging-house. 
We  spent  but  one  night  in  Port  Antonio,  in  a  clean 
lodging-house  kept  by  a  Canadian  family  lately 
from  New  Brunswick.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  a  slen- 
der, solemn-faced  little  girl  of  five  or  six  years,  who 
followed  me  about,  eying  me  very  seriously  and  in- 
tently, till  she  finally  said :  "  I  know  you  are  Santa 

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A    LOST    FEBRUARY 

Claus,  are  n't  you  ?  I  know  you  are,  and  I  *m  f(oiii^' 
to  tell  you  what  I  want.  I  want  a  cradle  for  my  dolly 
and  a  new  hat  and  a  Httle  gold  watch,"  —  all  this 
said  very  slowly  and  solemnly,  and  with  a  sort  of 
hushed,  awed  air,  closely  watching  my  face  the  while. 
I  saw  the  child  was  in  dead  earnest,  so  I  told  her  I 
was  not  Santa  Claus.  "  Yes,  you  are,  I  know  you 
are,"  she  replied.  "  Will  you  bring  me  these  things  ? 
I  should  like  them  now.  Is  your  pack  here  ?  "  I 
could  not  shake  her  off,  and  finally  had  to  tell  her 
that  my  pack  was  on  the  steamer,  and  that  I  would 
see  her  in  the  morning  if  it  contained  the  things 
she  wanted.  Poor  child!  her  faith  in  Santa  Claus, 
and  her  belief  that  she  had  at  last  caught  him,  was 
pathetic. 

The  next  morning  we  took  the  train  to  Kingston, 
going  second  class  as  we  should  have  done  in  Eng- 
land. A  colored  conductor,  colored  brakemen,  and 
colored  station  agents  were  novelties  to  us. 

Here  is  a  glimpse  of  a  winter  day,  February  o, 
in  Kingston  :  "  I  am  sitting  on  a  veranda,  shut  of! 
from  the  street  by  a  high  brick  wall  pierced  by  a 
tall  gate,  and  flanked  by  a  parched  flower  garden 
where  a  few  roses  only  are  in  bloom.  No  rain  to 
speak  of  since  last  fall.  An  atmosphere  like  that 
of  our  August.  Mercury  82°;  soft,  familiar  clouds 
slowly  drifting  over  a  blue  midsunnner  sky.  Tur- 
key buzzards  sailing,  forever  sailing,  far  and  near  ; 
their   shadows   sweep  across  the  low  roofs  of  the 

227 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

houses  Many  swifts  —  the  palm  swift  —  diving  in 
the  air,  —  smaller  and  more  nimble  of  wing  than 
our  swift.  The  low  gray  shingle  roofs  of  the  houses 
visible  on  all  hands ;  women  constantly  passing  in 
the  streets  with  trays  or  baskets  on  their  heads 
loaded  with  fruit,  or  yams,  or  cooked  food,  or  other 
wares,  and  sounding  their  shrill,  wild  street  cries. 
Can't  understand  one  of  them.  Now  a  yellow  man 
with  a  push-cart  with  some  cooling  drink  goes  by. 
It  seems  as  if  a  large  percentage  of  the  population 
must  be  on  the  street  peddling,  —  all  negroes.  Then 
comes  the  familiar  hum  and  grind  of  the  trolley 
cars.  Fleet-footed  lizards  dart  here  and  there  in  the 
shrubbery,  or  on  the  garden  wall.  A  large  green 
one  with  a  purple  tail.  The  Blue  Mountains  back 
of  New  Castle  stand  up  against  the  sky,  their  tops 
muffled  in  clouds.  Occasionally  a  mass  of  cloud 
drifts  out  toward  the  plain  below  and  lets  down  thin 
sheets  of  rain,  but  does  not  come  far.  The  arid  plain 
seems  to  dissipate  it  or  drive  it  back." 

To  escape  from  the  tourist-infested  portion  of  the 
island  and  to  get  a  taste  of  its  wilder  interior,  we 
engaged  a  carriage  and  driver,  and  set  out  early  one 
morning  along  the  superb  road  that  leads  to  Spanish 
Town  and  thence  on  to  Bog  Walk  and  Ewarton. 

The  road  was  smooth  and  hard  but  dusty,  and 
the  vegetation  on  either  side  —  vines,  bushes,  trees, 
often  forming  a  solid  impenetrable  wall  —  was  pow- 
dered with  dust  as  in  midsummer  at  home.    The 

22S 


A    LOST    FEBRUARY 

most  common  vine  by  the  roadside  everj^vhere  in 
Jamaica  is  a  wild  morning-glory  of  many  colors, 
similar  to  our  own,  but  growing  far  more  luxuri- 
antly, and  the  crimson  bougainvillea. 

As  you  pass  along  the  country  highways,  you 
come  to  have  a  half-defined  feeling  that  some  time 
in  the  past  there  must  have  been  a  huge  greenhouse 
here  that  has  gone  to  decay,  and  that  the  plants  and 
shrubs  and  vines  have  all  escaped  and  gone  wild, 
invading  the  fields  and  woods,  and  running  over 
the  banks  and  fences.  Tender  exotics  that  one  sees 
at  home  carefully  nursed  in  the  windows  by  our 
women  are  here  the  common  weeds  by  the  road- 
side. 

This  trip  into  the  interior  lasted  five  days,  tak- 
ing us  through  the  wilder,  ruggeder  portions  of  the 
island  for  about  eighty  miles,  ending  on  the  railroad 
at  Balaclava.  It  brought  us  pretty  close  to  the  real 
life  of  the  people,  and,  a  few  times,  a  httle  closer  to 
wild  nature  than  was  conducive  to  our  comfort. 
Touch  Nature  too  familiarly  here,  —  sit  down  by 
the  roadside,  or  recline  under  a  tree,  —  and  she  pep- 
pers you  with  a  kind  of  live  pepper  in  the  shape 
of  minute  ticks,  called  also  grass  lice,  that  pene- 
trate your  clothing  and  make  you  burn  and  itch, 
until  by  the  aid  of  your  companions  you  have  re- 
moved the  last  adhesive  speck  from  your  skin. 
These  Uving  germs  take  root  very  quickly,  and  if 
left,  grow  to  the  size  of  a  small  beau.    They  prey 

229 


FAR    AND    NEAR 

upon  the  cattle  and  other  Hve-stock.  One  could  see 
them  on  the  under,  less  hairy  parts  of  the  cows, 
looking  like  large  warts.  We  often  saw  a  large  black 
bird,  the  kling-kling,  perched  on  the  backs  of  the 
cattle,  making  a  meal  off  these  gorged  ticks.  One 
day  one  of  our  party  made  an  excursion  of  a  few  rods 
into  the  bush,  and  returned  with  his  coat  skirts  brow^n 
with  these  dust-like  torments.  Some  colored  girls 
who  chanced  to  be  passing  came  to  our  aid,  and 
helped  whip  the  ticks  off  with  a  certain  leafy  shrub 
that  they  said  was  death  to  them.  No,  you  can- 
not make  love  to  Nature  in  the  tropics  as  you  can  in 
our  zone.  Bew^are  how  you  embrace  her.  She  is  a 
lousy  beggar,  a  stinging  reptile,  a  brazen  wanton,  or 
a  barbaric  princess,  —  just  as  you  happen  to  find  her. 
Ah,  me !  even  at  her  best  she  has  not  the  constancy, 
the  tenderness,  the  self-forgetfulness,  of  the  Nature 
of  more  temperate  climes.  I  must  make  one  excep- 
tion: these  Jamaican  streams  and  rivers,  beautiful 
with  the  beauty  of  the  purest  mountain  brooks,  have 
nothing  suggestive  of  the  tropics  about  them ;  one's 
heart  goes  out  to  them  at  once.  Theirs  are  the 
clear,  shining  faces  of  old  friends,  of  many  a  trout 
camp  in  the  Catskills  and  Adirondack  w^oods. 
Limpid  and  pure  as  melted  snow,  no  sediment,  no 
earth  stain,  the  pebbles  and  boulders  with  which  they 
are  paved  are  washed  and  scoured  as  if  yesterday 
had  been  a  day  of  purification  with  them ;  they  lack 
only  the  coolness  of  our  very  best  mountain  streams. 

230 


A   LOST   FEBRUARY 

One  would  stoop  in  his  thirst  to  drink  from  a  copious 
limpid  spring  gusliing  out  of  the  mountain-side,  but 
experience  a  feeling  of  surprise,  if  not  of  repugnance, 
to  find  the  water  as  warm  as  in  a  bathing-pool.  This 
cannot  be  the  true  source,  you  half  think ;  the  water 
must  have  been  flowing  a  long  way  in  the  sun  some- 
where. One  is  apt  to  forget  that  the  temperature  of 
a  spring  represents,  pretty  nearly,  the  average  yearly 
temperature  of  a  locality.  They  have  a  way  in  Ja- 
maica of  reducing  the  temperature  of  the  drinking- 
water  many  degrees  by  letting  it  drip  slowly  through 
a  porous  earthen  vessel  into  a  pitcher  beneath  it. 
Treated  thus,  one  soon  comes  to  regard  it  as  very 
satisfactory. 

Our  course  that  first  day  soon  brought  us  to  the 
Rio  Cobre,  along  the  rocky  banks  of  which  the  road 
leisurely  took  its  way  to  Bog  Walk.  All  the  most 
pleasing  features  of  a  clear,  rapid,  boulder-strewn 
mountain  river,  the  Rio  Cobre  presents.  The  rocks 
are  of  limestone,  old,  worm-eaten,  and  very  pictur- 
esque, and  the  great  lucid  pools  suggested  trout  and 
salmon,  though  they  held  nothing  finer  than  mullets. 
On  this  stream  we  passed  the  plant  that  turns  the 
force  of  its  falls  and  rapids  into  electricity,  and  so 
furnishes  the  power  that  runs  the  trolley  lines  in 
Kingston,  twenty  miles  away. 

We  passed  the  night  at  a  lodging-house  (no  hotels 
in  the  country  in  Jamaica)  in  Ewarton,  and  were 
fairly  well  cared  for  by  the  yellow  landlady  and  her 

231 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

son.  The  most  novel  scene  I  witnessed  at  Ewarton 
was  that  of  two  old  negroes  next  morning  pounding 
coffee  in  big  mortar-like  vessels  made  out  of  the 
trunks  of  trees.  They  used  a  heavy  club,  and  punched 
and  punched  and  stirred  the  green  coffee  to  loosen 
the  chaff  or  skins  from  the  berry,  keeping  up  in  the 
mean  time  a  wild,  plaintive  chant  to  wliich  their 
pounding  was  timed.  They  were  grizzled  and  old, 
and  the  scene  was  curious  and  interesting.  Yes,  and  I 
recall  a  famishing  dog,  scarcely  more  than  a  walking 
skeleton,  going  about  the  street  licking  the  ground 
where  a  little  flour  had  been  spilt. 

From  Ewarton  our  course  took  us  over  wooded 
hills  and  mountains,  with  here  and  there  a  rude 
clearing,  to  Chapelton  in  the  valley  of  the  Rio 
Minho,  a  distance  of  about  twenty-five  miles.  My 
son  and  Mr.  Kellogg,  to  work  off  some  of  their  super- 
fluous American  energy,  walked  the  whole  distance, 
fording  the  Rio  Minho  a  half-dozen  or  more  times  in 
the  course  of  the  afternoon.  I  stuck  to  the  carriage, 
walking  only  when  I  got  tired  of  riding.  Bridges  are 
few  over  these  rapid  Jamaican  streams,  but  fording 
them  at  this  season  was  a  trifling  matter.  On  many 
of  the  smaller  streams,  in  lieu  of  a  bridge,  a  wall  is 
built  across  and  the  space  above  it  filled  in  with 
gravel,  resulting  in  a  wide,  shallow  sheet  of  water 
through  which  carts  and  pedestrians  pass  easily,  — 
a  new  device  in  road-making  to  our  eyes. 

I  walked  several  hours  up  the  valley  of  the  Rio 

232 


A   LOST    FEBRUARY 

Minho,  a  very  beautiful  stream.  A  colored  boy  o! 
twelve,  with  a  singularly  sweet  face,  joined  us,  and 
clung  closely  to  me,  —  a  real  little  comrade.  Finally 
he  said:  "I  like  you,  it  does  not  tire  me  to  walk 
with  you.  When  we  likes  a  man,  it  is  fun  ; "  again, 
**  When  we  has  pleasant  company,  it  makes  the  way 
seem  short."  Later  he  confessed:  "I  do  love  you, 
and  your  son,  too.  When  I  love  a  man,  I  cannot 
always  tell  him,  but  I  can  tell  you."  He  said  he 
would  write  me  a  letter,  so  I  wrote  my  name  and 
address  on  a  dry  bamboo  leaf  for  him.  He  was  a 
winsome  lad,  and  I  shall  not  soon  forget  liim. 

What  does  one  see  as  he  passes  along  the  road  in 
the  interior  of  Jamaica  ?  He  sees  a  superb  highway, 
round  and  smooth  and  winding,  leading  on  in  front 
of  him,  and  on  either  hand  bushes  and  trees  and 
woods;  never  an  open,  smooth,  cleared  field  as  at 
home;  at  best,  open  glades  and  long  vistas  through 
the  groves  of  logwood  and  cotton  wood.  The  log- 
wood groves  suggest  orchards,  —  low,  branching 
trees,  with  curious  fluted  or  beaded  trunks  and 
smooth,  yellowish,  mottled  bark,  —  each  tree  sug- 
gesting a  bundle  of  small  columns  welded  together. 
The  effect  was  very  novel  and  pretty.  The  cotton- 
woods  are  wide-branching,  sturdy-looking  trees, 
like  our  oaks.  Few  signs  of  agriculture  as  we  know 
it  at  home  are  visible;  the  wattled  bamboo  huts  of 
the  negroes  here  and  there  in  the  bush  are  sur- 
rounded by  a  few  banana  or  breadfruit  or  orange 

233 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

trees,  with  a  little  patch  of  half-cultivated  yams; 
there  are  few  cattle,  more  donkeys,  and  many  black, 
lean  pigs  ;  colored  people  on  the  road  everywhere, 
men,  women,  and  children,  —  mostly  women  and 
children,  —  with  small  or  large  burdens  upon  their 
heads,  going  to  their  work  in  the  bush  or  going  to 
and  returning  from  market.  The  smallest  bundle 
is  here  carried  upon  the  head. 

I  think  it  was  this  day  that  I  first  made  the 
jicquaintance  of  the  sensitive  plant,  —  "  shame  lady,'* 
the  natives  call  it.  I  saw  a  ball  of  delicate  pink 
bloom,  the  size  of  a  boy's  marble,  amid  a  mass 
of  small,  fine,  pinnate  leaves  by  the  roadside.  I 
plucked  the  flower  and  a  branch  of  the  plant  with  it, 
when  lo !  as  I  turned  my  eyes  from  the  flower  to  the 
leaves,  the  latter  were  not  the  ones  I  thought  I  had 
gathered.  I  plucked  more,  and  then  saw  the  sudden 
change  in  the  appearance  of  the  leaves :  the  moment 
they  were  touched  they  shut  up  hke  a  book,  the 
two  halves  hinging  on  the  midrib.  You  stoop  and 
gather  a  spray  of  many-divided  small  leaves,  —  you 
rise  up  with  something  in  your  hand  that  has  an 
entirely  different  aspect,  the  closed  leaves  present- 
ing only  sharp  edges  to  you.  Touch  the  plant  with 
your  foot,  or  stick,  ever  so  gently,  and  its  aspect 
changes  in  a  twinkling.  It  is  its  way  of  hiding  like 
a  sentient  thing;  the  stems  drop,  the  leaves  close, 
but  the  pretty  flower  is  unchanged.  Why  so  fear- 
ful ?  what  is  it  hiding  from  ?  of  what  advantage  is 

234 


A   LOST   FEBRUARY 

this  extreme  sensitiveness  to  it  ?  I  could  not  find  out. 
I  noticed  that  the  falling  rain  did  not  cause  it  to 
shut  up.  It  took  it  about  seven  or  eight  minutes  to 
open  its  leaves  again,  which  it  did  very  slowly.  The 
plant  belongs  to  the  leguminous  family.  Indeed, 
Jamaica  is  a  wonderful  country  for  pods  and  beans. 
You  see  pod-bearing  trees  and  bushes  everpvhere, 
and  pick  up  on  the  seacoast  huge  black  beans  that 
look  like  some  rare  polished  stones.  One  day  we 
passed  dense  masses  of  low  trees  in  bloom  by  the 
roadside  ;  they  looked  like  our  honey-locust,  except 
that  the  blossoms  were  yellow. 

On  this  day  we  passed  through  a  dry  section  of 
the  country,  where  water  was  scarce ;  and  nearly 
every  colored  boy  or  woman  that  we  met  carried  a 
long  stick  of  sugar-cane.  This  was  for  drink.  We 
persuaded  one  boy  to  part  with  his  six  or  eight  feet 
of  cane,  and  thereafter  for  many  miles  three  trav« 
elers  might  have  been  seen  eagerly  gnawing  at  the 
end  of  a  section  of  the  sweet,  succulent  stalk,  and 
chewing  it  with  an  air  of  placid  content.  The  juice 
slaked  the  thirst  and  was  pleasant  to  the  taste.  By 
attending  closely  to  business,  one  could  extract  the 
moisture  just  about  fast  enough  to  meet  the  hourly 
wants  of  the  system ;  so  that  the  gnawing  and  suck- 
ing could  go  on  indefinitely,  or  as  long  as  the  cane 

held  out. 

By  the  roadside  my  son  made  an  excursion  into 
a  grove  of  wild  oranges,  and  brought  back  a  branch 

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FAR   AND    NEAR 

of  one  of  the  trees  with  the  nest  of  the  Httle  blue 
quit  upon  it.  The  nest  was  made  of  dry  grasses,  and 
was  shaped  hke  a  small  crook-necked  gourd;  the 
neck  hooked  over  the  limb  so  that  the  entrance  to 
it  was  on  one  side  of  the  branch  and  the  body  of  it 
below  the  other  side.  It  was  very  pretty,  and  I 
carried  it  in  the  carriage  for  two  days  hoping  to 
bring  it  home  with  me,  but  it  finally  got  hopelessly 
crushed. 

We  saw  no  cultivation  of  the  soil  to  speak  of  till 
we  reached  a  large  sugar  plantation  in  Judas  Vale, 
—  one  of  the  few  large  sugar  estates  that  are  still 
worked  in  the  island,  —  called  Worthy  Park,  cover- 
ing a  large,  oval,  sunken  valley  several  miles  across. 
Here  were  rich  level  bottoms  covered  w  ith  the  green, 
corn-like  sugar-cane,  and  here  sugar-making  and 
rum-making  were  being  carried  on  by  swarms  of 
negroes,  in  a  large  old  mill  with  a  huge  overshot 
water-wheel.  It  all  smacked  of  the  picturesque, 
patriarchal,  wasteful  times.  Things  were  done  on 
a  large  scale,  but  awkwardly,  cumbrously:  a  vast 
herd  of  oxen  and  mules  to  do  the  hauling,  —  six  or 
eight  yoke  of  the  former  hitched  to  a  huge,  heavy 
dray  or  wagon  hauling  sugar-cane  and  driven  wildly 
by  as  many  men,  with  much  running  and  yelling; 
bushers  and  overseers  of  high  and  low  degree;  the 
planter  himself,  a  tj^ical  colonial  Englishman, 
born  on  the  island,  —  florid,  burly,  positive,  out- 
spoken, authoritative,  dissatisfied,  but  hospitable 

£36 


A   LOST    FEBRUARY 

to  us  strangers.  The  planter  showed  us  through 
his  works  from  the  rollers  where  the  cane  was  be- 
ing crushed  and  pressed  to  the  cribs  where  the  rum 
was  being  distilled,  and  then  invited  us  to  his  house 
for  luncheon.  His  men  were  paid  mostly  by  piece 
work.  He  said  they  were  worth  Httle  at  a  stated 
wage  by  the  day  or  week. 

From  Worthy  Park  we  took  our  way  over  the 
mountain  toward  Chapelton,  going  down  the  long, 
steep,  peculiar  "  Old  Woman's  Hill "  into  the  valley 
of  the  beautiful  Rio  Minho.  We  saw  flocks  of  green 
parrots  flying  across  the  hill,  —  my  first  sight  of  a 
wdld  bright  green  bird.  When  we  reached  the  ford 
of  the  Rio  Minho,  there  stood  our  little  green  heron, 
looking  very  homelike  to  me. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  Chapelton  ?  "  we  asked  of  a  col- 
ored man. 

"  Far  enough,  sah." 

Several  miles  farther  on  we  put  the  question  to 
another  man. 

"  Not  too  far,  sah." 

The  probable  distance  in  miles  to  any  given  place 
we  could  never  get  from  a  native  in  Jamaica. 

Darkness  came  on,  the  team  lagged,  the  road  grew 
hilly,  and  Chapelton  seemed  to  recede  before  us. 
Presently,  long  after  dark,  we  saw  far  ahead  of  us, 
in  what  seemed  a  bend  in  the  road,  brilliant  lights 
flashing  out.  Surely,  we  said,  here  is  Chapelton, 
and  these  are  the  lamps  in  the  streets  or  in  the  win- 

237 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

dows  of  the  houses.  But  when  we  reached  the  place, 
how  bitter  was  our  disappointment  to  find  that  the 
hirhts  came  from  huf^e  fireflies !  There  seemed  to  be 
a  firefly  carnival  in  that  particular  spot.  When  one 
of  these  insects  passed  through  or  over  a  tree  and 
sent  forth  his  ray,  one  could  see  the  foliage  distinctly. 
Photographers  say  that  the  light  is  sufficient  to  "  fog  " 
a  plate.  It  was  yet  a  long,  tiresome  ride  to  Chapel- 
ton,  which  w^e  found  on  a  hill  above  the  river  —  a 
straggling  street  of  poor,  dilapidated  houses  —  about 
ten  o'clock.  We  succeeded  in  procuring  lodging  in 
a  house  w^here,  I  am  sure,  some  of  the  odors  had 
kept  over  from  the  times  of  the  Spanish  occupation, 
and  where  the  beds  were  as  hard  as  the  middle  of 
the  road.  I  sat  in  the  little  stuffy  sitting-room,  tired 
and  sulky,  Vv^hile  my  companions  higgled  with  the 
black  landlady  about  charges.  No  grass  could  be 
had  in  town  for  the  horses,  and  these  had  finally 
to  be  taken  three  miles  out  to  pasture  by  our  driver, 
Andrew. 

In  the  morning  we  drew  the  carriage  up  in  front 
of  the  lodging-house  on  the  broad,  grassy  side  of 
the  street  to  load  on  our  traps.  Before  the  luggage 
was  half  on,  a  colored  police  officer  appeared;  with 
great  dignity  and  solemnity  he  ordered  us  to  remove 
the  carriage,  and  asked  for  our  names  that  he  might 
report  us  at  Kingston  for  violating  a  village  ordi- 
nance. We  had  technically  blockaded  the  street 
(though  ours  seemed  the  only  four-wheeled  vehicle 

238 


A    LOST    FEBRUARY 

in  town,  and  a  whole  circus  caravan  coiiM  have 
marched  past  over  the  free  space),  and  the  law 
must  take  cognizance  of  our  offense.  IIow  stern 
and  unbending  the  colored  corporal  was!  No  mat- 
ter if  we  were  Americans  and  ignorant  of  the  law, 
the  offense  was  the  same,  and  we  must  answer  at 
the  police  court  in  Kingston.  Andrew,  the  driver, 
"  sassed  back,"  and  would  not  give  his  name  or  resi- 
dence, but  I  gave  our  names  and  the  corporal  wrote 
them  in  his  note-book.  We  hustled  the  wagon  back 
into  the  yard,  gazed  upon  curiously  by  a  crowd 
of  men,  women,  and  boys  that  had  gathered,  put 
on  the  rest  of  our  things,  and  were  off.  Before  we 
were  out  of  the  village,  we  met  the  chief  magistrate, 
a  hearty  young  Englishman,  who  had  heard  of 
our  arrival  and  wished  to  show  ^Nlr.  Kellogg  some 
attention.  He  waved  aside  the  complaint  of  the 
police  corporal  who  came  up  just  then,  asked  us 
into  his  office,  discussed  our  proposed  route  with 
us,  and  gave  us  points,  and  letters  of  introduction 
to  police  sergeants  and  others  on  the  road.  I  saw 
Andrew  offer  the  police  corporal,  who  had  given  us 
a  glimpse  of  the  inviolability  of  village  ordinances 
in  Jamaica,  some  copper  coins  to  drink  our  health 
with,  but  he  refused  them,  and  we  were  oft'  in  better 
humor  for  Frankfield,  distant  another  day's  drive. 

It  was  market  day  in  Chapclton,  and  the  road  was 
lined  with  women  and  children  and  donkeys  on  their 
way  to  dispose  of  the  produce  of  their  little  farms. 

239 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

My  son  and  Mr.  Kellogg  had  gone  on  ahead  of  the 
carriage,  and  we  found  them  with  their  cameras  set 
up  on  the  farther  side  of  the  Rio  Minho,  waiting  to 
photograph  the  women  and  donkeys  as  they  forded 
the  stream.  The  women  divined  their  purpose;  a 
large  squad  had  collected  in  front  of  them,  refusing 
to  be  the  subjects  of  a  picture  till  they  were  paid. 
"Give  us  money;  give  us  money,  bucra  massa." 
One  old  woman,  between  sixty  and  seventy,  I  should 
say,  had  upon  her  head  a  burden  that  weighed 
about  as  many  pounds.  I  tossed  her  a  penny  to 
placate  her  a  bit,  for  she  protested  the  most  loudly 
of  any,  and  she  tried  to  pick  up  the  coin  without 
removing  her  burden,  but  could  not  quite  do  it,  so 
I  got  down  from  the  wagon  and  handed  it  to  her, 
and  got  a  graceful  curtsy  for  my  pains.  Bowing 
the  head  is  out  of  the  question  with  such  burdens 
as  they  carry.  We  bought  tangerines  and  oranges 
of  the  women;  still  they  refused  to  move  on,  and 
their  numbers  increased.  One  old  woman  had  eggs 
to  sell.  I  handed  one  of  them  to  Kellogg,  and  asked 
him  if  he  thought  it  was  fresh.  Now  Kellogg  has  a 
way  of  imitating  the  yea]p  of  a  young  chicken  that 
deceives  the  mother  hen  herself.  He  shook  the  egg 
and  placed  it  to  his  ear.  Faint  but  clear  came  the 
distressed  yeap  of  the  imprisoned  chick.  I  heard 
it,  and  others  heard ;  the  old  woman  heard  it, 
and,  as  the  cry  continued,  a  curious,  surprised,  in- 
credulous look  came  over  her  face.  "  I  fear  they  are 

240 


A   LOST    FEBRUARY 

not  fresh,"  said  Kellogg,  and  placed  the  egg  to  his 
ear  again  with  the  same  result.  This  was  too  much 
for  the  old  woman ;  with  a  half-angry,  half-alarmed 
look,  she  reached  forth  her  hand  and  said,  "  Gi'  me 
dat  egg,''  and  hurrying  it  into  her  basket,  hastened 
into  the  ford.  The  others  followed,  and  the  boys 
got  the  exposure  they  wanted. 

About  mid-forenoon  we  overtook  a  colored  man 
with  the  inevitable  machete,  going  to  his  work.  We 
walked  with  him  a  mile  or  more.  He  was  a  cheery, 
bright,  companionable  sort  of  a  man.  His  name  was 
John  Good.  He  was  going  to  grub  out  and  clean 
off  a  bit  of  land  which  he  had  near  the  river. 

"  Are  you  married,  John  Good  ? "   I  asked. 

"  No,  sah,  not  yet." 

"  Have  you  any  children,  John  ?  " 

"Yes,  sah,  two." 

John  was  living  with  the  mother  of  his  children, 
but  as  yet  he  had  neglected  the  ceremony  of  mar- 
riage. 

We  wanted  a  bath,  so  John  conducted  us  to  a 
large,  beautiful,  blue  pool  in  the  river,  shaded  by 
bamboo,  where  we  had  our  first  Jamaican  swim. 
How  delicious  the  water  was,  like  that  of  our  mid- 
summer trout  streams  far  from  their  source.  John 
said  he  would  catch  us  a  fish,  a  mullet,  ^^^th  his 
hands.  The  feat  seemed  impossil^lc  in  such  a  lartro, 
deep  pool,  but  our  black  comrade  came  near  doin*^ 
it.   We  could  see  his  dark  form  darling  about  at  llio 

241 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

bottom  of  the  pool,  like  that  of  a  huge  muskrat, 
feeling  under  rocks  and  roots  of  trees,  and  staying 
down  so  long  that  our  lungs  ached  in  sympathy. 
Only  a  few  days  before,  he  said,  he  had  caught  fish 
there  with  his  hands,  but  this  time  he  could  not 
bring  one  to  the  surface. 

We  overtook  girls  and  boys  who  had  been  to 
market  at  Chapelton  and  were  on  their  way  home 
with  lightened  burdens,  some  of  them  making  a 
journey  of  fifteen  miles  each  way.  How  lithe  and 
supple  some  of  the  young  women  were,  running  and 
dodging  and  playing  games  with  the  boys  as  they 
went  along,  and  never  losing  the  burdens  from  their 
heads!  A  squad  of  four  or  five  kept  with  us  for 
many  miles.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  their  happy  faces 
and  bright,  playful  ways. 

At  Frankfield  we  passed  the  night  in  a  police 
station,  —  the  first  experience  of  the  kind  any  of  us 
had  ever  had.  There  was  no  lodging-house  in  the 
place.  We  had  a  letter  to  the  police  sergeant,  and 
he  took  us  into  their  snug,  clean  quarters,  and  made 
us  comfortable. 

The  most  interesting  sight  w^e  saw  here  was  the 
ruins  of  an  old  sugar-mill,  —  fragments  of  walls  and 
arches  overgrown  with  vines  and  trees,  and  the  iron 
skeleton  of  a  large  water-wheel.  The  date  in  the 
wall  was  1773.  At  that  time  all  the  slopes  and  hills 
about  were  covered  with  sugar-cane. 

The  next  day,  which  was  Sunday,  we  pushed  on 

U2 


A   LOST    FEBRUARY 

up  the  Rio  Minho,  often  fording  the  shallow  and 
pellucid  stream,  falling  in  with  colored  men  with 
whom  we  walked  and  talked,  crossing  hills  and 
mountains  on  an  easy  grade,  on  to  the  home  of 
Colonel  Hix,  near  Kendal.  We  had  a  letter  to 
Colonel  Hix,  and  were  received  by  him  and  his  wife 
with  true  Jamaican  hospitality.  The  colonel  is 
superintendent  of  schools  for  a  large  section  of  the 
island.  He  had  served  in  our  Civil  War,  and  had 
come  to  Jamaica  from  Illinois  more  than  thirty 
years  before,  in  a  very  bad  way  from  pulmonary 
trouble.  The  climate  had  healed  him,  and  he  was 
now  as  well  as  a  man  over  seventy  can  reasonably 
hope  to  be.  He  expected  to  finish  his  days  in 
Jamaica.  His  house  was  aptly  named  "  Cozy,"  and 
the  hours  we  spent  there  are  very  pleasant  to  recall. 
Colored  people  everywhere  in  their  starched  Sunday 
clothes  swarmed  in  the  roads  and  lanes,  going  to 
and  from  their  huts  amid  the  trees  and  bushes, 
chatting,  laughing,  and  supplying  the  human  ele- 
ment that  this  rather  rude  and  broken  landscape 
needed. 

The  next  day  we  continued  our  journey  westward 
toward  the  Cock  Pit  country  and  the  valley  of  the 
Black  River,  passing  through  a  section  where  the 
chief  product  was  ginger.  The  boys  and  girls  all 
seemed  occupied  in  peeling  ginger  roots,  and  before 
every  hut  were  little  platforms  where  the  roots  were 
drying.  We  passed  a  family  moving,   and  appar- 

243 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

ently  canning  all  their  goods  and  chattels  upon 
their  heads,  the  women,  as  usual,  having  the  biggest 
bundles.  Indeed,  the  number  of  people  everywhere 
in  Jamaica  upon  the  highway  was  a  perpetual  sur- 
prise to  us ;  at  least  ten  times  as  many  as  one  would 
see  at  home  in  our  most  populous  country  districts. 
Market  day  comes  several  times  a  week,  and  every- 
body seems  to  go  to  market  with  something  to  sell,  — 
a  few  shillings'  worth  of  yams  and  oranges,  or  ba- 
nanas, or  eggs,  or  other  farm  produce.  How  familiar 
became  the  sight  of  a  woman,  —  dusty,  sweating, 
lean-shanked,  but  determined,  —  with  her  donkey 
being  led  by  a  boy  or  girl,  while  she  urged  it  from 
behind,  its  huge  panniers  stuffed  with  grass  and 
a  variety  of  country  products,  sometimes  pigs  and 
poultry  being  visible. 

This  day,  for  the  first  time  in  the  island,  I  saw  two 
smooth,  nicely  plowed  fields  on  a  side-hill,  such  as 
one  sees  at  home,  —  many  acres  free  from  bushes 
and  weeds,  and  apparently  under  thorough  cultiva- 
tion. I  wondered  at  them  much  till  I  learned  that 
they  were  the  property  of  two  of  my  own  country- 
men, who  were  going  into  ginger  farming. 

We  passed  the  night  at  Coleyville  with  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Turner,  to  whom  we  had  a  letter,  —  a  forlorn, 
ramshackle  place,  but  a  hospitable  host.  Here 
was  this  man,  a  Baptist  clergyman  in  middle  life, 
spending  his  days  in  this  wilderness  amid  these 
rude,  ignorant  people,  ministering  to  their  souls  and 

244 


A   LOST   FEBRUARY 

to  their  sick  bodies  as  best  he  could,  living  in  an 
old  musty  house  with  two  or  three  slatternly  ser- 
vants, his  wife  in  Scotland,  and  his  two  sons  being 
educated  at  Cambridge.  Another  year  and  a  half 
was  to  elapse  before  he  could  take  a  vacation  to 
visit  them  and  his  native  land.  His  seemed  to  me 
a  bitter  cup,  but  he  was  not  making  wry  faces  over 
it.  Let  me  again  draw  upon  my  note-book:  "At 
Dr.  Turner's,  Monday,  February  10,  4  p.  m.,  1902. 
A  world  of  wooded  knolls,  very  primitive.  Alti- 
tude three  thousand  feet,  mercury  70°,  a  slow  rain 
falling  ;  wraiths  of  fog  rising  from  the  woods  as  at 
home.  Small  thatched  cabins  of  the  natives  here 
and  there  visible  through  the  trees.  Like  our  back- 
woods places,  except  the  curious  dumpling-shaped 
hills  scattered  on  all  hands, — no  long,  sweeping 
lines  and  curves. 

"  The  note  of  the  solitaire  comes  up  from  the  wet 
woods  below  us,  almost  identical  with  that  of  the 
Oregon  robin  in  Alaska,  —  very  pleasing  to  me. 
Now  a  mockingbird  alights  on  a  stake  a  few  yards 
from  the  house  and  sings  for  a  moment,  —  the  most 
abundant  songster  about  here,  —  not  at  all  a  fine 
songster  to  me." 

In  the  evening  we  sat  about  the  table  with  much 
talk,  while  the  rain  came  steadily  down.  That 
night  we  slept  three  in  a  bed,  —  a  hard  bed  and 
harder  pillows.  Sleep  would  not  come  to  me;  I 
charged  it  to  the  altitude  of  three  thousand  feet;  at 

215 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

midnight  I  crept  out,  and,  wrapped  in  my  blanket, 
lay  upon  the  floor,  —  to  reduce  the  altitude,  my 
son  said :  but  no,  it  was  to  reduce  the  problem  to 
simpler  terms. 

It  was  foggy  and  misty  when  we  left  Coleyville 
in  the  morning,  and  continued  so  until  we  had 
reduced  the  altitude  by  over  a  thousand  feet,  and 
had  got  below  the  cloud-line,  when  at  noon,  in  the 
valley  of  Hector's  River,  we  ran  into  sunshine. 

In  the  afternoon  we  skirted  for  two  or  three  hours 
that  curious  Cock  Pit  country,  —  a  vast  area  cov- 
ered with  huge  rough-hewn  rocky  bowls,  several 
hundred  feet  deep,  and  many  hundred  or  even 
thousand  feet  across  the  top,  their  rims  craggy, 
wooded,  their  sides  and  bottoms  green  and  verdur- 
ous, usually  with  a  stream  or  river  coming  out  of 
the  earth  on  one  side,  and  plunging  into  it  again  on 
the  other,  —  a  land  of  pits  and  caves  and  subter- 
ranean water-courses.  The  road,  hard  and  smooth, 
wound  round  the  rims  of  these  huge  pits  or  bowls, 
giving  us  views  into  the  deep,  sunken  valleys,  now 
on  the  right  hand,  nov/  on  the  left.  Now  we  see  a 
sparkling  current,  now  the  hill  has  swallowed  it. 
The  streams  come  from  the  earth  quietly,  gently^ 
and  as  quietly  and  gently  they  return  to  it.  This 
region  is  full  of  caves,  one  of  which,  Oxford  Cave, 
near  Balaclava,  we  explored.  It  was  like  our  own 
caves,  a  series  of  huge  irregular  chambers,  with 
the    inevitable    stalactites  and  stalagmites,  and  — 

U6 


A    LOST   FEBRUARY 

what  our  caves  do  not  have  in  such  numbers  — 
swarms  of  bats.  The  bats  came  out  of  the  crevices 
of  the  rocks  over  our  heads  Hke  bees  out  of  a  hive 
in  swarming  time,  making  a  curious  soft  hum  with 
their  myriad  wings.  What  acute  senses  of  some 
kind  these  creatures  must  have!  In  that  primal 
darkness,  when  our  torches  were  extinguished,  they 
would  pass  and  repass  us,  and  thread  their  way 
through  those  narrow,  crooked  alleys,  without  touch- 
ing a  wing  to  rock  or  man.  The  sense  which  in 
the  darkness  makes  us  aware  of  our  near  approach 
to  any  object,  the  bat  doubtless  has  in  a  very  acute 
and  highly  developed  form. 

We  found  Balaclava  one  of  the  most  attractive 
places  we  had  yet  reached.  There  was  a  clean,  well- 
kept  lodging-house,  where  good  meals  and  good 
beds  could  be  had  at  a  reasonable  charge.  We  had 
contemplated  a  canoe  voyage  from  near  this  place 
down  Black  River  to  the  sea,  but  abandoned  the 
project.  Canoeing  or  camping  out  in  a  tropical 
country  can  have  little  of  the  attraction  it  has  amid 
our  more  simple,  wholesome,  and  companionable 
nature.  From  this  point  we  returned  to  Kingston 
by  rail,  leaving  the  team  to  come  by  the  road. 

From  Kingston  one  sees  the  rows  of  white  build- 
ings of  New  Castle  clinging  to  the  shoulders  of 
the  mountain  like  some  new  kind  of  cliff  swal- 
low's nests.  They  have  an  enticing,  adventurous 
look.    New  Castle  is  the  rendezvous  of  the  British 

247 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

ioldiers  in  Jamaica  during  the  summer.  The 
military  authorities  kindly  consented  to  our  occupy- 
ing a  furnished  cottage  there  called  "  The  Refuge," 
which  at  that  season  was  not  in  use,  —  a  small, 
low,  rambling  cottage  perched  upon  a  shelf  of  the 
mountain,  its  little  flower  garden  in  front  full  of 
blooming  roses,  geraniums,  and  heliotrope,  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  fringe  of  the  ever  graceful  bamboo. 
A  thousand  feet  above  us  towered  Katherine's 
Peak;  below  us  we  saw  the  world  as  a  soaring 
hawk  sees  it,  the  mountains  dropping  down  to  the 
hills,  and  the  hills  to  the  plain,  and  the  plain,  upon 
which  stands  the  city  of  Kingston,  tilting  to  the 
sea,  twelve  or  fifteen  miles  distant,  where  we  saw 
the  ships  sail  away  into  the  sky,  to  the  moon,  or 
to  the  evening  or  the  morning  star.  How  the  sea 
rises  up  into  the  horizon  when  viewed  from  a  great 
altitude  !  We  could  not  tell  where  the  water  ended 
and  the  sky  began. 

We  had  a  colored  man,  Joseph,  whom  we  had 
picked  up  in  Gordonsville,  and  who  served  us  as 
both  man  and  maid,  —  quiet,  willing,  modest,  relia- 
ble Joseph,  with  broad,  naked  feet,  greatly  spread 
at  the  toes,  and  sturdy  neck  capable  of  sustaining 
the  head,  in  a  climb  up  the  long,  steep  mountain- 
side, with  a  burden  of  forty  or  fifty  pounds.  We 
did  not  permit  Joseph  to  do  the  cooking,  we  liked 
that  service  ourselves,  but  he  gathered  the  wood,  — 
mostly  dry  bamboo,  —  washed  the  dishes,  and  did 

248 


A    LOST    FEBRUARY 

errands,  one  day  going  to  Kingston  and  back  with 
great  ease. 

The  climate  at  this  elevation  was  much  like 
that  of  the  Catskills  in  August,  or  even  cooler;  the 
nights  so  cool  that  we  could  not  sit  out  on  the 
veranda  later  than  eight  o'clock.  A  double  woolen 
blanket  was  not  too  much  covering  on  the  bed. 
The  whole  scenery  of  the  heavens  is  shifted  a  little 
when  you  get  so  far  south.  The  moon  passes  far- 
ther north,  Orion  and  the  Pleiades  seem  rif'ht 
over  head,  and  the  Big  Dipper  is  quite  hidden 
behind  the  ridge  of  Katherine's  Peak.  Twice 
we  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  peak  along  one  of  the 
narrow  graded  roads  called  "bridle-paths,"  that 
thread  all  the  valleys  and  mountain  passes  in 
this  island,  and  find  their  w^ay,  always  an  easy,  lei- 
surely way,  to  all  the  mountain  summits.  In  many 
places  the  path  was  carved  out  of  the  soft,  crum- 
bling rock.  It  was  lined  and  draped  and  cusliioncd 
with  mosses  and  ferns  and  vines  and  various  trop- 
ical growi;hs.  Near  the  top  of  the  mountain  two 
colored  men  were  clearing  it  of  its  various  wild 
growths  with  the  ubiquitous  machete.  This  tool, 
which  is  carried  by  nearly  every  countryman  in 
Jamaica,  is  the  one  universal  tool.  It  serves  as  a 
scythe  with  which  to  mow  grass,  and  as  an  axe  to 
cut  wood  and  fell  trees.  It  is  the  tool  for  tropical 
jungles  and  tangles.  With  this  in  his  hand,  how  one 
can  slash  his  way  through  the  dense,  spiny,  vine- 

249 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

choked  thickets!  These  men  were  clearing  the 
roads  of  weeds  with  it.  We  saw  the  hght  blue 
wreath  of  smoke  from  their  fire  going  up  through 
the  dark,  glistening  green  of  the  forest  that  clothed 
the  mountain,  when  we  were  far  below  them.  Their 
dog  lay  curled  up  by  the  fire,  where  something  for 
their  dinner  was  simmering,  and  barked  at  us  as 
any  other  self-respecting  dog  would  have  done. 

This  is  the  region  of  the  tree  ferns,  —  the  only 
place  where  we  found  them,  — straight,  rough,  hairy 
shafts,  five  or  six  inches  through,  and  twelve  or  fif- 
teen feet  high,  with  a  circle  of  delicate,  wide-spread- 
ing fronds  at  the  top, — broad,  tapering  sheets  or 
plumes  of  green  lace  crowning  a  crabbed,  touch- 
me-not-looking  column. 

On  the  vertical  bank  of  the  roadside,  what  a 
wealth  of  mosses  and  small  ferns  and  plants !  with 
now  and  then  in  the  more  sunny  places  a  just 
ripening  wild  strawberry.  We  had  often  to  pause 
and  feast  our  eyes  upon  this  marvelous  veil  behind 
which  Nature  hides  her  cleft  rocks  in  the  trop- 
ics. How  dark  and  dense  and  bearded  and  choked 
the  forest  sweeping  down  the  mountain-side  below 
us,  shaggy,  glistening,  almost  scaly,  fanged;  with 
touches  of  rare  and  delicate  beauty,  but  with  an  as- 
pect, on  the  whole,  strange,  forbidding,  treacherous ! 

When  a  turn  in  the  path  gave  us  unexpected 
views  across  the  deep  valley  upon  the  huge  flank  of 
Blue  Mountain  Peak,  and  of  its  great  sweeping  sky- 

2o0 


A    LOST    FEBRUARY 

lines,  we  would  pause  with  delight,  and  let  our  eyes 
go,  Hke  falcons  loosed  for  the  quarry.  From  these 
altitudes  we  often  saw  hawks  wheeling  and  heard 
them  screaming  far  below  or  above  us,  just  as  in 
summer  we  are  wont  to  see  them  from  our  native 
mountains,  and  apparently  they  were  the  same 
species,  the  red-tailed. 

On  the  summit,  which  was  free  of  trees,  we 
found  our  white  clover  in  bloom  and  the  butter- 
cup and  wild  strawberries.  I  was  more  surprised, 
however,  to  find  the  Scotch  gorse  blooming  here. 
It  can  hardly  be  a  native  of  the  island.  It  was 
probably  brought  and  planted  there  by  British  sol- 
diers whose  summer  camp  we  had  just  left.  It  told 
the  story  of  Tommy  Atkins  longing  for  his  native 
hills.  He  had  tried  with  fair  success  to  create  a  bit 
of  Scotland  there  on  Katherine's  Peak. 

From  this  vantage-ground  we  could  look  down 
upon  the  coffee  plantations  tilted  up  against  the 
mountain-side  beneath  us.  To  our  eyes  they  looked 
like  bushy,  neglected  fields.  Here  and  there  we 
could  see  what  is  called  a  barbecue,  —  a  broad 
cement  platform  where  the  coffee  is  dried.  The 
superb  mihtary  road  wound  leisurely  up  from 
the  deep  valley,  —  how  plainly  we  could  see  it,  —  a 
yellow  ribbon  amid  the  green,  looping  and  loop- 
ing endlessly.  Towards  Kingston,  vivid  emerald 
squares  of  sugar-cane  held  the  eye,  and  suggested 
fields  of  Indian  corn.     They  grow  our  corn  in  Ja- 

251 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

maica,  but  only  to  a  very  limited  extent.    We  saw 
ripe  com,  and  by  its  side  corn  just  coming  up. 

On  one  occasion,  my  son  and  I,  getting  tired 
of  the  heat  and  noises  of  Kingston,  went  seeking 
discomfort,  and  we  found  it,  the  genuine  article ; 
but  it  was  the  discomfort  of  campers-out  under 
adverse  conditions,  —  discomfort  that  time  and 
distance  always  soften,  and,  in  a  measure,  trans- 
form. Indeed,  the  woes  of  campers-out  are  always 
better  to  look  back  upon  than  the  pleasures  of  the 
stay-at-homes.  My  son,  with  our  travehng  compan- 
ion, Mr.  Kellogg,  had  spent  a  night  at  Great  Salt 
Pond,  a  Httle  side  pocket  of  the  Caribbean,  beyond 
Port  Henderson,  twelve  miles  distant,  where,  as 
the  fishermen  hauled  their  nets,  he  had  seen  the 
most  wonderful  phosphorescent  fireworks  in  the 
water,  and  where  crocodiles  promenaded  the  shores 
at  midnight.  Hither  we  would  go  and  get  a  taste  of 
the  salty  and,  no  doubt,  seamy  side  of  Jamaican 
nature.  But  the  ten-mile  row  across  the  harbor 
from  Kingston  to  Port  Henderson,  over  that  iri- 
descent sea,  under  a  soft  (to  us)  midsummer  sun, 
the  grand  Blue  Mountain  scenery  rising  up  into 
the  clouds  on  our  right,  the  long,  low  arm  of  Port 
Royal  on  our  left,  the  wooded  heights  of  Port  Hen- 
derson in  front,  great  pelicans  soaring  and  diving 
obliquely  into  the  water,  all  along  the  route,  were 
not  without  their  charm  to  me,  especially  as  my 
companion  did  most  of  the  pulling. 

252 


A    LOST   FEBRUARY 

What  made  the  old  Scotch  rhyme  constantly 
hum  itself  in  my  mind,  I  do  not  know :  — 

"  Little  did  my  mither  think  the  day  she  cradled  me. 
The  lands  I  was  to  travel  in,  the  death  I  was  to  dee.*' 

Here  we  were  in  strange  lands,  indeed,  but  we 
had  no  fear  of  leaving  our  bones  upon  the  sands 
of  Great  Salt  Pond. 

And  surely  the  reception  we  met  with  at  Port 
Henderson,  at  the  hands  of  a  family  whose  ac- 
quaintance we  had  previously  made,  does  not  be- 
long to  the  tale  of  our  woes,  but  of  our  joys.  Such 
hospitality,  —  food,  cheer,  rest,  —  all  so  freely,  gladly 
given,  one  would  rarely  find  at  home ;  but  in  Ja- 
maica we  found  it  everywhere.  The  generous 
human  affections  and  impulses  seem  to  grow  as 
luxuriantly  there  as  the  vegetation.  A  pail  of  drink- 
ing-water was  provided  us  here,  as  we  should  find 
none  at  Salt  Pond,  and  in  the  early  evening,  the  full 
moon  flooding  the  sea  and  the  land  with  its  light,  we 
set  out  for  the  pond,  an  hour's  row  distant,  keeping 
under  the  abrupt,  high,  rocky  shore,  over  a  glassy 
sea,  in  the  soft,  luminous  tropical  night.  Leisurely 
we  rounded  point  after  point,  till  the  mountain 
ended  and  a  low  bushy  shore  was  before  us.  In  this, 
somewhere,  was  the  narrow,  almost  liidden  open- 
ing into  Great  Salt  Pond.  But  the  boy  has  a  keen 
sense  of  topography  ;  he  had  been  there  once  before 
by  daylight  ;  so,  with  an   instinct  as  unerring  as 

253 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

that  of  some  wild  creature,  the  boat  felt  its  way 
into  the  little  gut  or  channel  that  connects  the  pond 
with  the  sea.  In  less  than  a  hundred  yards  we 
emerged  from  the  shadows  of  the  verdure  upon 
the  still,  moon-drenched,  circular  bit  of  land-locked 
sea.  How  weird  and  mystical  it  looked!  a  wild 
range  of  rocky,  bushy  hills  upon  one  side,  and  low, 
wooded  shores  upon  the  other. 

At  the  far  side,  a  mile  or  more  distant,  standing 
upon  the  sand,  was  a  small,  dilapidated  building 
used  mainly  by  fishermen.  To  this  point  we  directed 
our  course,  and  in  due  time  drew  our  boat  up  on 
the  low,  sandy  beach. 

The  scene  was  wild  and  lonely  in  the  extreme,  but 
this  was  a  part  of  what  we  had  come  for.  We  ex- 
perienced our  first  disappointment  when  we  found 
that  the  moonlight  killed  the  phosphorescent  dis- 
play that  we  had  hoped  to  see.  Only  a  very  pale 
blue  flame  could  now  be  evoked  from  the  water. 
My  son's  second  disappointment  came  when  his 
long  and  cautious  promenade  upon  the  shore,  re- 
volver in  hand,  and  his  long  vigil  by  the  inlet  into 
a  second  salt  pond  revealed  no  crocodiles.  In  his 
absence  I  had  scooped  out  a  place  in  the  sand, 
spread  our  blankets,  and,  with  a  couple  of  old  doors 
raised  over  the  spot  to  keep  off  the  dews  of  the 
night,  stretched  myself  out,  a  lodger  for  the  first 
time  with  tropical  nature.  But  sleep  did  not  come 
easily  ;  in  fact,  did  not  come  at  all.    The  ants  froro 

254 


A    LOST    lElsRUARY 

below  and  the  mosquitoes  from  above  soon  found 
me  out.  The  Jamaican  sand  ant  is  a  subtle,  per- 
sistent creature,  and  the  mosquitois  persistent  with- 
out being  subtle.  Roll  myself  in  my  blanket  and 
cover  my  face  and  head  as  I  would,  I  could  not 
shake  off  or  discourage  either.  About  niidni^^Mit 
my  son  returned  from  his  fruitless  crocodile  hunt, 
and  joined  me  in  the  couch  of  sand.  Youth  can 
sleep,  no  matter  what  the  conditions.  Presently 
some  strange  water-fowl,  whose  hoarse  honking 
and  calling  we  had  been  hearing  all  the  evening, 
spied  us  out  there  on  the  sand,  and  gathered  about 
us;  they  stretched  their  necks,  or,  as  the  boys  say, 
*'  rubbered  "  and  "  rubbered,"  and  let  off  their  weird 
notes  of  astonishment  or  alarm.  In  the  moonlight 
I  saw  them  standing  at  the  water's  edge  and  cran- 
ing their  necks,  all  alive  with  curiosity.  Not  till  my 
son  whipped  out  his  revolver  and  fired  at  one  of 
them  did  the  disturbing,  long-necked  commenting 
upon  our  presence  cease. 

There  in  the  stillness  of  the  night  we  heard  the 
wild  cattle  low  in  the  woods  beyond  the  marshes. 
(We  had  been  told  of  a  wild  herd  in  this  neighbor- 
hood.) Then  mockingbirds,  the  Antillean  species, 
sang  in  some  near-by  bushes,  and  the  mosquitoes 
and  ants  still  persisted.  About  two  o'clock,  finding 
sleep  impossible,  and  that  my  body  no  longer  fitted 
the  mould  in  the  sand,  I  shook  myself  out  of  my 
blanket  and  stepped  forth,  and  instantly  thanked 

255 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

my  stars  for  my  wakefulness,  for  there  low  in  the 
southern  horizon  hung  the  Southern  Cross,  —  four 
large,  bright  stars,  one  in  each  arm  of  the  imaginary 
cross.  I  aroused  my  companion  that  he,  too,  might 
see  this  splendid  spectacle  of  the  southern  heavens. 
It  was  the  first  and  only  view  that  we  got  during 
our  stay  on  the  island.  This  bit  of  new  astronomy 
made  me  forget  the  pests  of  the  sand.  It  was  not 
long  now  till  daylight,  and  something  Uke  an  hour's 
sleep  was  snatched  at  the  last  moment.  Before  the 
sun  was  up  I  was  washed  and  combed  and  Hstening 
to  the  vocal  performances  of  the  mockingbirds.  It 
was  not  engaging  music  to  me.  I  do  not  know  how 
much  this  West  Indian  species  falls  short  in  musical 
ability  of  that  of  our  own  mockingbird  of  the  South- 
ern States,  if  any.  But  it  was  not  a  songster  that  I 
wished  to  take  home  with  me  as  I  did  the  solitaire. 
It  was  not  equal  to  our  catbird's  song,  and  the 
morning  carol  of  the  robin  would  have  made  it  seem 
cheap  and  trivial.  It  was  bantering,  hilarious,  fes- 
tive, but  it  had  no  sweetness,  seriousness,  or  feeling. 

We  had  our  Primus  stove  with  us  sans  alcohol, 
and  my  patience,  even  my  temper,  was  sorely  tried, 
and  many  matches  were  wasted,  in  trying  to  evoke 
with  kerosene  oil  alone  the  intense  blue  flame  that 
crowns  success  with  this  stove.  But  despite  the 
wind,  this  feat  was  at  last  accomplished,  and  our 
breakfast  of  bacon,  eggs,  tea,  and  toast  was  achieved. 

Then  we  rowed  round  the  pond,  and  found  the 

^5Q 


A    LOST    FEBRUARY 

narrow  channel  that  joins  it  to  the  second  pond. 
Into  this  we  made  our  way,  and  discovered  that 
it  was  semi-stagnant.  It  was  a  likely  place  for 
crocodiles,  but  we  saw  none,  —  only  a  large,  heron - 
Kke  water-fowl  that  was  suspicious  of  our  approacli. 
The  most  striking  scene  here  was  a  kind  of  vege- 
table Hades  where  we  landed  and  tarried  a  short 
time.  If  the  bad  spirits  in  the  vegetable  world  go 
to  a  bad  place,  this  is  probably  where  they  bring  up; 
or,  as  I  said  to  my  son,  if  the  human  imps  —  mean- 
ness, spitefulness,  jealousy,  uncharitableness,  and 
backbiting  —  were  to  take  vegetable  form,  here  we 
doubtless  see  what  they  would  be  like,  —  a  thick, 
rank  growth  of  several  forms  of  cacti,  intermingled 
with  various  thorned  and  fanged  bushes  standing 
upon  a  jagged,  crabbed,  deeply  seamed  rocky  floor. 
Under  the  hot  sun  the  place  exhaled  a  pcculiiirly 
disagreeable  odor.  With  great  difficulty  I  pushed 
my  way  into  it  a  few  yards.  If  there  had  only  been 
a  few  writhing,  hissing  serpents  there  and  a  horned 
toad  or  two,  the  scene  would  have  been  complete. 
Some  of  the  fluted,  cylindrical  growths  of  cacti 
towered  up  twenty  feet,  and  were  so  thickly  set  with 
rows  of  long,  sharp,  vicious  needles  that  it  fairly 
made  the  eyes  water  to  look  at  them.  This  was  the 
fanged  side  of  tropical  nature,  and  we  soon  had 
enough  of  it.  These  huge  growths  of  cacti  were 
fleshy  and  tender  hke  fruit;  one  could  hack  into 
them  with  his  knife  as  into  a  melon  or  an  apple,  but 

257 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

what  eats  them  ?  Why  all  this  terrible  panoply 
of  spines  ?  The  spine  and  the  thorn  everywhere,  I 
suppose,  is  simply  a  sign  of  savage,  unregenerate 
nature.  We  saw  in  Jamaica  some  species  of  palm, 
so  bristling  with  long,  awl-like  thorns  that  one  could 
not  look  at  them  without  a  positive  feeling  of  dis- 
comfort. Think  of  the  amount  of  original  sin  there 
must  be  in  such  a  tree!  And  no  fruit  to  guard, 
either,  —  just  a  spontaneous  overflow  of  the  hatred 
and  spitefulness  of  the  old  fire-eating,  all-devouring, 
seismic  earth! 

Great  Salt  Pond  is  shallow,  of  a  uniform  depth 
of  about  three  and  a  half  feet,  so  that  the  fisher- 
men wade  in,  hauling  their  nets.  The  evaporation 
is  so  great  that  the  water  seems  to  be  always  flowing 
in  from  the  sea. 

On  our  way  out  we  found  a  boat  at  the  inlet  w  ith 
our  friends  the  Davises,  —  a  father  and  three  sons, 
•  —  from  Port  Henderson.  Their  hospitality  and  soli- 
citude for  our  well-being  had  brought  them  the  four 
miles  with  a  pail  of  fresh  water.  In  the  inlet,  which 
was  running  like  a  mill  race,  we  all  went  in  bathing, 
partly  for  a  bath,  but  chiefly  of  necessity  to  haul  and 
push  our  boats  out  against  the  current.  How  de- 
licious that  bath  w^as,  except  that  the  savage  current 
hurled  both  my  son  and  me  against  the  banks  w  ith 
such  force  that  our  skins  w^ere  gashed  in  several 
places. 

Here  we  saw  that  large,  beautiful  tropical  fish,  the 

258 


A    LOST    FEBRUARY 

"  calipeever,"  darting  about  or  poising  in  the  swiftly 
running,  transparent  water,  as  large  as  a  salmon  trout. 

Then  came  the  quiet  afternoon  row  l)a(k  to 
Kingston,  with  more  refreshment  and  cheer  at  the 
house  of  our  Port  Henderson  friends,  the  sujxrb 
Blue  Mountain  scenery  on  the  one  hand,  and  Port 
Royal  and  the  open  sea  on  the  other. 

The  birds  in  Jamaican  waters  that  amused  us 
most  were  the  great,  ill-shaped,  lubberly  pelicans. 
EveryAvhere  in  the  bays  and  harbors  w^e  w^ould  see 
them  poising  and  diving.  From  a  hundred  feet  or 
so  above  the  water,  they  hurl  themselves  down  reck- 
lessly, striking  the  surface  with  a  great  splash.  Ikit 
they  usually  get  the  fish.  My  son  aptly  described 
their  flight  as  that  of  a  bird  sitting  down  to  fly. 
Most  water-fowl  fly  w  ith  head  and  neck  stretched 
straight  out,  but  the  pelican  draws  his  head  back, 
curves  his  neck,  and  seems  to  sit  down  upon  his 
great  hulk  of  a  body  and  row  himself  along  with  his 
huge  wings. 

Kingston  we  found  a  dull,  hot,  uninviting  place, 
—  low  houses,  dirty  streets,  with  a  colored  popula- 
tion, for  the  most  part  ragged  and  lazy.  It  is  a  city 
of  crowing  roosters.  They  begin  at  nine  o'clock 
promptly,  and  crow  every  hour,  if  not  oftener,  tlie 
night  through.  When  one  gives  the  signal,  you  hear 
the  challenge  taken  up  all  about,  tlie  chorus  swelling 
and  spreading  till  a  wave  of  shrill-voiced  sound 
sweeps  over  the  city.     Then   another  wave,  and 

2,59 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

another,  three  or  four  times  repeated,  till  theif 
finally  die  down,  to  remain  so  till  the  hour  strikes 
again.  The  traveler  tarrying  in  Kingston  soon 
comes  to  wish  that  the  mongoose  had  made  poultry- 
raising  still  more  difficult  than  it  is. 

And  the  dogs  were  not  far  behind  the  roosters. 
But  the  flea  and  the  tick  do  not  leave  much  spirit  in 
the  Jamaican  dog.  Poor  cur,  how  wretched  and 
forlorn  he  looks  !  That  he  can  bark  at  all  is  a  won- 
der. And  it  is  only  in  town  that  he  does  bark,  and 
in  the  cool  of  the  night.  In  the  country  he  looks  at 
you  wistfully,  or  languidly  searches  his  own  body 
for  the  pests  that  make  his  life  miserable. 

EveryT\here  the  cocoanut-trees  are  upon  the 
beach  or  near  it.  There  seems  to  be  a  fringe  of 
them  around  the  whole  island.  They  lean  toward 
the  sea  as  if  they  loved  it ;  or  does  this  attitude 
enable  them  the  better  to  withstand  the  gales  from 
the  sea  ?  We  saw  them  upon  small  islands,  —  in  one 
case  a  solitary  tree  upon  a  little  coral  reef  a  few 
yards  in  extent,  still  yearning  seaward.  The  wind 
blows  back  their  long  leaves  so  that  they  suggest 
runners  with  their  hair  streaming  behind  them. 

The  palms  of  all  sorts  seem  less  like  trees  than 
like  gigantic  woody  plants.  They  have  no  branches, 
■ —  only  a  stalk  with  a  tuft  of  leaves  at  the  top.  The 
wood  is  not  wood,  but  bundles  of  tough  fibres  like 
cords  and  ropes  ;  and  the  leaves  are  not  leaves,  but 
more  fibres  welded  together  in  tin-Uke  sheets  and 

260 


A   LOST    FEBRUARY 

spears  that  rattle  in  the  wind.  They  curve  and 
sway  gracefully,  but  it  is  rather  the  grace  and  neat- 
ness of  geometric  figures  than  of  wild  free  growths. 
The  roots,  too,  are  not  roots  like  those  of  other  trees, 
but  mops  of  cords  of  a  uniform  size.  The  cocoanut- 
tree  lays  hold  of  the  ground  by  ten  thousand  of 
these  cords  about  the  size  of  a  pipe-stem,  which  in 
the  stem  are  gathered  together  and  welded  into  a 
huge  cable,  eight  or  ten  inches  through.  The  growth 
of  the  cocoanut  is  in  but  one  direction,  —  upward. 
The  stem  does  not  increase  in  size  as  it  shoots 
heavenward.  A  tree  sixty  feet  high  has  a  trunk 
no  larger  than  one  ten  feet  high.  Up,  up  it  goes, 
like  some  extension  arrangement  or  appliance,  per- 
petually pushing  out  new  leaves  and  new  fruit 
blossoms  at  the  top,  and  dropping  the  old  ones ; 
always  with  a  circle  of  ripened  fruit  surmounted 
by  other  circles  of  half-grown  and  just  formed  nuts, 
crowned  by  a  ring  of  new,  cream-colored  bloom. 
Its  young  leaves  emerge  from  the  parent  stem 
swathed  in  coarse  burlap.  Their  swaddling-clothes 
would  make  a  shirt  in  which  the  most  austere  and 
fanatical  of  the  old  monks  might  have  done  pen- 
ance. Probably  nothing  else  is  born  in  the  world 
wrapped  up  in  such  a  harsh,  forbidding  integument; 
a  product  of  the  tree's  interior  juices  and  vitii? 
functions,  it  is  nevertheless  as  dry  and  stiff  anc 
apparently  as  lifeless  as  the  product  of  a  weaver's 
loom.    Its  office  seems  to  be  to  hold    up  and  to 

2G1 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

protect  the  young  leaf  till  it  can  stand  and  wave 
alone.  Then  it  begins  to  let  go  and  peel  away. 
From  one  young  tree  I  cut  enough  of  this  natural 
hemp  cloth  to  make  me  a  shirt,  should  I  be  seized 
with  the  penitential  fit.  It  possesses  regular  warp 
and  woof,  and  the  fibres  are  crossed  over  and  under 
as  in  real  cloth.  The  cocoanut  is  strongly  expres- 
sive of  one  side  of  tropical  nature,  —  its  hard,  harsh, 
glittering,  barbaric  side. 

To  our  northern  eyes,  Nature  in  the  tropics  has 
little  tenderness  or  winsomeness.  She  is  barbaric; 
she  is  painty  and  stiff;  she  has  no  sentiment;  she 
does  not  touch  the  heart;  she  flouts  and  revels  and 
goes  her  own  way  like  a  wanton.  She  has  never 
known  adversity;  she  has  no  memory  and  no  long- 
ing; there  is  no  autumn  behind  her  and  no  spring 
before  ;  she  is  a  prodigal,  she  lives  in  the  present, 
she  runs  to  spikes  and  spines  ;  perpetual  summer 
has  given  her  the  hue  and  tone  of  August,  —  dark, 
strident,  cloying.  She  is  rank,  she  is  wicked;  she 
stings  and  stabs  and  bites  you,  or  she  heeds  you 
not.  No  turf  in  the  fields,  no  carpet  of  moss  and 
lichens  in  the  woods.  Indeed,  the  woods  are  barred 
against  you.  It  is  impossible  to  make  your  way 
into  them  without  cutting  a  path.  The  tangle  of 
vines,  the  spiny  growths,  the  interlocked  branches, 
the  close  and  fierce  and  unending  struggle  for  ex- 
istence of  all  manner  of  plants,  bushes,  and  trees, 
make  walking  in  the  woods  out  of  the  question. 

262 


A   LOST   FEBRUARY 

Only  where  the  superb  roads  and  bridle-paths  lay 
them  open,  can  you  thread  their  interiors.  And  there 
you  walk  betwee-n  walls  of  rank  vegetation,  —  no 
glimpses  along  forest  aisles  and  corridors,  no  long, 
cool  perspectives,  no  leaf-strewn  floors  of  checkered 
sunlight  and  shadow,  no  interior  housed  and 
cloistered  effects  at  all.  Apparently  the  woods  in 
Jamaica  are  never  swept  by  fire  any  more  than 
they  are  in  Alaska;  the  dense  ground  vegetation 
and  the  humidity  secure  them  against  the  besom  of 
the  flames.  The  trees  cast  their  leaves  one  by  one, 
apparently,  the  year  through,  hke  the  human  tree: 
always  falling  leaves,  always  new  buds  and  blos- 
soms. We  saw  wild  blackberries  (poor  things),  with 
ripe  fruit  and  green,  and  just  opened  blossoms. 
The  word  sylvan  belongs  to  higher  latitudes.  There 
are  lairs  and  jungles  and  smothering  dungeons  in 
tropical  forests,  but  no  clean,  restful  sylvan  solitude. 
How  much  the  beauty  of  our  northern  land- 
scape owes  to  grass,  — this  green  nap  or  pile  of  the 
fields  and  hills,  so  tender,  so  uniform,  so  human- 
izing, softening  the  outlines,  tempering  the  light, 
loving  the  snow  and  the  moisture,  bringing  out 
the  folds  and  dimples  of  plain  and  slope,  and  cloth- 
ing the  northern  mountains  as  with  veils  of  green 
gauze!  The  tropical  grasses  are  coarse,  broad- 
leafed,  —  crab  grass,  Bahama  grass,  Guinea  grass, 
—  good  forage,  but  not  pleasing  to  look  upon,  and 
the  landscape  is  but  slightly  affected  by  them. 

263 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

I  cannot  conceive  of  any  poetry  ever  being 
produced  in  the  tropics.  Nature  and  life  there  do 
not  make  the  poetic  appeal.  There  is  Uttle  that  is 
heroic,  or  plaintive,  or  pathetic,  or  that  stimulates 
the  imagination  or  fosters  sentiment.  The  beak  and 
claw  and  spine  and  thorn  side  of  nature  is  more 
pronounced  than  in  our  zone ;  forms  are  more 
savage,  disease  is  more  deadly.  Man  cannot  take 
Nature  to  himself  and  dominate  and  tame  and  hu- 
manize her,  as  he  can  where  snow  falls  and  spring 
comes.  Nature  moulds  and  stamps  him,  and  devel- 
ops his  fangs  of  passion. 

How  much  our  civilization  owes  to  the  winter 
and  to  the  spring!  to  the  tender,  to  the  heroic,  to 
the  prophetic  moods  of  Nature.  How  are  our  lives 
enriched  and  deepened  and  stimulated  by  the 
changes  of  the  seasons  :  the  spring  with  its  yearn- 
ing and  allurements,  the  summer  with  its  victories 
and  defeats,  the  autumn  with  its  repose  and  plenty, 
the  winter  with  its  spur  and  tonic,  —  what  would 
our  lives  be  without  these  things  ? 

The  leaves  of  the  trees  in  Jamaica  are  for  the 
most  part  thick  and  stiff  and  shining,  —  var- 
nished by  the  sun  and  the  heat.  The  foliage  rarely 
presents  the  airy,  feathery,  graceful  character  of 
the  foliage  of  our  trees.  The  landscape  is  rarely 
impressive.  It  is  deficient  in  the  elements  of  sim- 
plicity and  dignity.  It  is  too  often  a  jumble  of 
broken  and  insignificant  lines.    It  was  not  moulded 

2G4 


A   LOST    FEBRUARY 

and  sculptured  by  the  old  ice  /];od.s  in  late  p^eolo^nc 
times  as  ours  was.  It  looks  crude  and  unfinislied 
to  northern  eyes,  like  certain  of  our  Rocky  Mountain 
views.  In  the  Blue  Mountains,  however,  one  ^'ots 
glimpses  of  the  long,  sweeping,  masterful  lines  that 
are  characteristic  of  our  mountain  scenery.  The 
higher  parts  of  the  mountains  are  in  the  grand 
style.  They  suggest  the  Catskills,  but  are  steeper 
and  loftier  by  several  hundred  feet,  Blue  Mountain 
Peak  reaching  an  altitude  of  seventy-three  hun- 
dred feet.  Their  backs  are  not  so  broad  as  those 
of  the  Catskills;  they  have  not  been  worn  down  in 
the  same  way.  They  are  wooded  to  their  summits. 
One  of  our  most  delightful  experiences  was  the 
week  we  spent  upon  them  at  New  Castle,  four 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea. 

Jamaica  is  poor  in  animal  life.  No  squirrels,  nor 
foxes,  nor  rabbits,  nor  marmots,  nor  bears,  nor  deer 
in  the  woods,  —  no  four-footed  game  at  all,  and 
only  a  short  list  of  native  birds.  We  met  a  few  of 
our  own  summer  residents  there  spending  the  win- 
ter,—  the  Maryland  yellow-throat,  the  black  and 
white  creeping  warbler,  the  redstart.  In  one  place 
on  the  edge  of  some  woods  I  saw  the  oven-bird 
walking  about  in  its  pretty,  contented  way  as  at 
home,  and  along  the  mountain  streams  I  heard  the 
sharp  chijp  of  the  water-wagtail,  as  along  my  own 
streams.  None  of  these  birds  were  in  song,  and 
probably  in  early  March  they  turned  their  faces 

2G5 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

northward,  no  doubt  making  their  first  flight  of 
ninety  miles  to  Cuba,  then  continuing  by  way  of 
the  Bahamas  to  the  Florida  coast. 

I  heard  but  one  bird  in  the  island  that  touched 
my  heart,  and  that  was  the  solitaire,  a  thrush-like 
bird  that  belongs  to  the  genus  Myadestes.  It  is 
colored  like  our  catbird,  and  of  about  the  same 
size.  It  has  a  white  mark  near  the  eye  ;  hence  the 
natives  call  it  "shine  eye."  It  is  very  shy  and  se- 
cluded in  its  habits,  and  is  often  known  as  the 
invisible  bird.  I  heard  it  hundreds  of  times,  but 
saw  it  only  twice.  It  is  found  only  in  the  moun- 
tains after  an  altitude  of  two  or  three  thousand  feet 
is  attained.  I  have  never  heard  a  bird-note  more 
expressive  of  seclusion  and  wild  solitude,  —  melo- 
dious, plaintive,  far-heard,  it  sounds  through  the 
twilight  forests  like  a  call  to  some  holy  rite  or  fes- 
tival. It  made  me  think  of  Keats's  "Ode  to  a 
Nightingale;"  it  has  the  same  magic  quality,  the 
power  of  pure  music  to  call  up  visions  of  "faery 
lands  forlorn." 

"  Forlorn ;  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell,** 

and  there  was  something  bell-like  in  the  "  plaintive 
anthem  "  of  this  bird.  It  usually  began  with  a  series 
of  tinkling,  bell-like  notes,  —  from  a  golden  bell,  if 
that  were  possible.  These  were  followed  by  two 
long,  tapering,  flute-like  strains  in  different  keys, 
exquisitely  melodious  and  appealing.  It  was  a  voice 


A  LOST  FEBRUARY 

from  out  the  heart  of  sacred  solitude,  and  made 
me  want  to  follow 

"  And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim : 

"  Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known. 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan." 

When  I  first  heard  a  single  bar  of  the  song,  I  was 
strongly  reminded  of  the  plaint  of  the  Oregon  ro})in 
as  I  had  heard  it  in  the  wilds  of  Alaska.  It  was  the 
same  tapering,  soulful  monotone.  This  may  be  the 
reason  that  the  full  song  seemed  to  me  more  expres- 
sive of  Alaskan  solitudes,  with  so  much  in  them  that 
was  to  the  eye  what  pure  melody  is  to  the  ear,  than 
of  tropical  forests. 

There  is  another  bird  in  Jamaica  (called  by  the 
natives  the  Spanish  quail,  because  there  is  a  look 
about  the  head  that  suggests  the  quail),  that  I  heard 
briefly  on  one  occasion  utter  notes  much  like  those 
of  the  solitaire.  The  native  oriole  has  a  whistle  that 
recalls  that  of  our  oriole,  and  the  native  kingbird 
is  almost  a  copy  of  ours.  A  species  of  grackle  or 
crow  blackbird,  with  his  white  eye,  had  a  ver\' famil- 
iar look.  A  queer,  clownish-looking  bird  is  the  little 
tody,  with  its  green  suit  and  large,  golden  beak.  It 
looked  as  if  made  up  for  some  carnival.  I  did  not 
hear  it  sing  or  rehearse  its  part.     There  are  several 

2G7 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

8mall  birds  called  "quits,"  as  the  blue  quit,  the 
grass  quit,  the  orange  quit.  We  found  a  nest  of 
the  last-named  bird  on  the  limb  of  an  orange-tree, 
a  curious  structure  woven  of  fine  grasses,  and  shaped 
like  a  gourd  with  the  neck  bent  over  the  limb,  so 
that  the  entrance  was  upon  one  side  of  the  branch 
and  the  body  of  the  nest  upon  the  other.  The  latter 
part  of  February  the  grass  quit  was  building  a  nest 
in  a  chmbing  vine  over  the  door  of  the  house  Avhere 
we  were  staying.  The  male  seemed  more  industri- 
ous in  carrying  sticks  and  straws  than  the  female, 
—  praise  I  had  never  before  known  a  male  bird  to 
deserve.   The  song  was  fine  and  insect-like. 

Three  species  of  hummingbirds  were  noticeable. 
One  large  one,  called  the  "doctor,*'  nearly  black, 
with  two  long  plumes  in  its  tail,  drew  our  attention 
frequently.  When  it  flew,  these  long,  narrow  plumes 
trailed  or  undulated  behind  it,  producing  a  curious 
rocket-like  effect,  or  the  effect  of  some  ingenious 
toy.  In  the  mountains  I  saw  the  black  mango  hum- 
mingbird gathering  spiders'  webs  from  the  rocks, 
no  doubt  to  be  used  in  sticking  the  lichens  upon  the 
nest,  after  the  manner  of  our  ruby-throat. 

Mockingbirds  were  common  throughout  the  is- 
land,— the  Antillean  form  appearing  almost  iden- 
tical with  our  southern  mockingbird.  The  mating 
season  was  at  hand,  and  the  birds  were  full  of  action 
and  of  song ;  the  latter  quite  unmusical,  never  as 
pleasing  as  that  of  our  catbird. 

268 


A    LOST    FEBRUARY 

The  only  wild  animal  that  we  saw  in  Jamaica 
was  the  mongoose,  and  this  was  not  often  seen.  We 
had  glimpses  of  three  or  four,  during  our  month's 
stay  on  the  island,  hurriedly  crossing  the  road  in 
front  of  us,  or  darting  into  the  bushes.  They  sug- 
gested a  large  weasel  or  a  light-colored  mink.  They 
are  very  destructive  to  everything  that  lives  and 
nests  upon  the  ground.  They  have  even  driven  the 
rats  into  the  trees  ;  we  saw  several  rats'  nests  amid 
the  branches.  They  make  eggs  and  poultry  expen- 
sive on  account  of  their  depredations  upon  the  hen- 
coops. 

Our  last  week  in  Jamaica  was  spent  at  Bowden 
on  Port  Morant,  near  the  extreme  eastern  end  of  the 
island.  Bowden  proved  to  be  the  most  restful  and 
enjoyable  place  we  had  found  —  a  most  delightful 
change  from  the  heat,  dust,  and  squalor  of  Kings- 
ton. The  hotel,  called  Peak  View  Cottages,  owned 
by  the  United  Fruit  Company,  is  situated  on  a  ridge 
three  hundred  feet  above  the  harbor,  w^ith  the  sea  on 
one  hand  and  the  huge  pile  of  the  Blue  Mountains 
on  the  other.  A  fresh  breeze  was  always  blowing, 
the  Caribbean  Sea  was  always  full  of  delicate,  shift- 
ing rainbow  tints,  the  ten  thousand  cocoanut  palms 
that  covered  hill  and  valley  about  us  were  always 
rustling  and  swapng,  and  the  Blue  INIountains  and 
the  John  Crow  range,  with  a  vast  stretch  of  wooded 
country  between  us  and  them,  with  plantation 
houses  at  intervals  gleaming  out  of  the  dank  green, 

209 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

were  there  to  draw  and  delight  the  eye  with  the 
rugged  and  the  subhme.  We  could  see  the  steam- 
ers far  at  sea,  coming  round  the  point  of  the  island 
and  making  for  our  harbor.  Late  one  afternoon 
I  watched  a  steamer  leaving  for  South  Africa,  slant- 
ing slowly  away  from  the  island  into  the  Caribbean 
and  fading  from  view,  —  gt)ing  down  behind  the 
rim  of  the  great  ocean-girdled  world.  What  a  speck, 
creeping  slowly  down  and  around,  over  the  shining 
surface  of  the  great  sphere  toward  that  far-off  land ! 

Here,  where  we  only  expected  to  stop  over  night 
on  our  way  to  Manchioneal,  we  tarried  for  a  week, 
and  gave  ourselves  up  to  the  mood  or  the  whim 
of  the  moment,  sitting  for  hours  on  the  cottage 
porches,  gazing  upon  the  strange  scenes,  drinking 
in  tropical  nature  through  all  our  senses,  our 
eyes  following  the  calmly,  majestically  sailing  tur- 
key buzzards  that  were  everywhere  in  evidence, 
then  resting  on  the  long  line  of  cocoanut  palms 
where  the  surf  was  breaking  upon  the  coral  reefs 
two  miles  away.  Glancing  over  the  broad  sweep  of 
palms  near  at  hand,  rustling  and  glinting  in  the  sun, 
our  eyes  plunged  down  into  the  green  waters  of  the 
bay  below  us  on  the  west,  then  darted  away  to  the 
mountains  where  Cuna  Cuna  Pass  invited  us  to 
continue  our  journey  to  Manchioneal,  or  alighted  on 
the  changing  cloud  drapery  that  hid  Blue  Moun- 
tain Peak. 

One  day  we  took  a  leisurely  drive  to  the  Hot 

270 


A   LOST    FEBRUARY 

Springs  at  Bath  and  gathered  our  first  nutmegs 
and  Otahitu  apples.  Day  after  day  we  made  our 
way  down  through  palm  groves,  past  trees  and 
bushes,  to  the  beach,  where  we  bathed  in  the  warm 
surf,  cut  our  feet  upon  the  coral  rocks,  sat  upon  or 
examined  the  rusty,  time-eaten  cannon  that  had 
lain  exposed  or  half  buried  in  the  ruined  fortifica- 
tions for  more  than  a  hundred  years,  contemplated 
the  strange  and  curious  forms  of  vegetable  life,  or 
watched  the  pelicans  diving,  and  the  fiddler  crabs 
"scrapping"  upon  the  shore.  We  talked  with  the 
people  at  their  cabin  doors  and  watched  the  men 
taking  the  husks  from  the  cocoanuts  as  the  wo- 
men gathered  them;  we  loitered  upon  the  dock 
and  watched  the  girls  and  women  loading  the  fruit 
steamers  with  bananas  —  an  endless  chain  of  wo- 
men and  girls  going  from  the  little  cars  to  the 
steamer's  side,  all  bearing  bunches  of  bananas  on 
their  heads,  often  continuing  the  work  till  past  mid- 
night, and  toward  the  last,  when  tired  and  sleepy, 
timing  their  movements  to  a  wild  musical  chant. 
They  were  all  barefoot  and  rather  ragged  and 
soiled,  the  dripping  of  the  juice  from  the  frcslily 
cut  banana  stem.s  soon  besmearing  their  clothes. 
Thirty  thousand  bunches  of  the  fruit  were  thus 
often  put  on  the  steamer  in  a  single  night.  The 
women  earned  about  eighteen  pence  each. 

One  day  we  made  an  excursion  on  the  little  toy- 
like railway  out  to  Golden  Grove,  six  or  eight  miles 

271 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

distant,  in  the  last  century  a  large  sugar  plantation, 
now  a  banana  and  cocoanut  plantation  owned  by 
the  United  Fruit  Company.  The  little  railway  con- 
nected the  plantation  with  the  steamer.  Train-loads 
of  bananas  and  cocoanuts  were  brought  in  to  the 
steamers  daily.  Golden  Grove  is  a  large,  oval,  fertile 
plain,  threaded  by  the  limpid  Gardner  River  and 
surrounded  by  an  amphitheatre  of  hills  and  moun- 
tains. Most  of  the  large,  solid,  whitewashed  build- 
ings of  the  old  sugar  plantation  were  still  standing; 
some  of  them  with  the  high-arched  bridge  were  very 
picturesque.  Here  we  saw  many  East  Indian  coolies, 

—  a  slight,  slender,  sooty-faced  race,  the  women  often 
in  rags,  with  silver  bands  on  their  ankles  and  wrists. 
Here,  too,  we  saw  a  large  herd  of  East  Indian  oxen, 

—  wide-horned,  high-shouldered,  dewlapped  crea- 
tures, with  a  wonderful  look  of  dignity  and  repose. 
A  coolie  woman,  stripped  to  the  waist,  w^as  washing 
her  clothes  in  the  river  near  the  ruins  of  the  old 
mill,  while  her  little  girl  of  ten  or  twelve  was  bathing 
in  the  pool  near  by.  It  was  a  pretty  picture,  and  my 
son  determined  to  get  a  photograph  of  it.  When 
the  woman  saw  what  he  was  about  she  was  very 
indignant  and  voluble,  but  she  was  too  late;  the 
camera  winks  quickly.  A  few  pennies  would  have 
made  her  a  willing  subject. 

For  some  reason,  before  I  went  to  Jamaica  I  had 
thought  of  the  banana  as  growing  upon  a  tree,  but 
here  it  was  growing  upon  a  kind  of  huge  cornstalk, 

272 


A   LOST   FEBRUARY 

—  a  stalk  the  size  of  one's  leg  and  fifteen  or  twenty 
feet  high,  —  one  bunch  of  fruit  from  each  stalk  or 
plant.  When  the  fruit  is  gathered  the  old  stalk  is 
cut  away,  and  a  new  sprout  from  the  root  takes  its 
place.  The  stalk  is  composed  of  the  stems  of  the 
big  long  leaves.  The  bunch  of  bananas  springs  di- 
rectly out  of  the  heart  of  the  plant.  There  is  notliing 
superficial  or  fortuitious  about  it  as  there  is  with 
most  fruit.  It  is  the  whole  show;  it  is  a  serious 
matter ;  it  sums  up  the  whole  plant.  One  can  see 
where  the  bud  is  before  it  emerges,  by  the  swelling 
of  the  stalk,  —  Hke  the  bird  or  frog  in  the  snake's 
body. 

I  doubt  if  there  is  any  future  for  Jamaica.  It 
seems  to  me  it  is  bound  to  remain  pretty  much  as  it 
now  is.  Its  black  population  have  not  the  sec^ds  of 
progress.  The  resources  of  the  island  are  not  great 
except  in  the  production  of  fruit,  and  for  tliis  there 
is  no  free  market  near  at  hand.  There  is  no  mineral 
wealth,  and  no  tempting  field  for  capital.  For  the 
past  ten  years  its  imports  have  exceeded  its  exports 
by  a  million  dollars  annually.  This  difference  is 
probably  made  good  by  tourists  from  this  country 
and  from  England.  American  capital  and  Americ-an 
enterprise  are  doing  more  for  the  island  than  arc 
British.  Banana  culture,  already  on  a  large  scale, 
is  increasing,  and  is  mainly  the  work  of  the  UnitrJ 
Fruit  Company. 

The  burden  of  taxation  in  the  island  is  excessive/ 

273 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

and  kills  all  native  enterprise.  If  a  new  Industry 
starts,  it  is  taxed  out  of  existence.  I  was  told  of 
several  that  had  been  thus  killed.  They  literally 
tax  the  wheels  off  the  wagons,  the  tax  being  about 
five  dollars  a  wheel.  A  man  is  afraid  to  make  any 
improvement  about  his  house,  —  to  add  another 
window,  or  to  put  on  a  piazza  or  a  new  roof,  —  lest 
his  taxes  be  increased.  I  heard  of  an  American  who 
took  an  automobile  there  to  make  a  tour  of  the 
island,  but  the  sum  demanded  by  the  authorities 
before  they  would  allow  him  to  land  it  —  something 
over  a  hundred  dollars  —  was  so  great  that  he  went 
back  home  with  it  on  the  steamer's  return  trip. 

Hence  I  say  that  the  tax-gatherer  is  the  incubus 
that  weighs  down  Jamaica.  The  people  are  exces- 
sively taxed,  largely  to  pay  big  salaries  to  the  tax- 
gatherers.  The  governor,  quite  a  useless  personage, 
it  seems  to  me,  is  paid  five  thousand  pounds  a  year, 
and  there  is  a  long  string  of  ofiice-holders  below 
him,  grading  down  to  the  police  commissioners,  that 
all  draw  big  pay.  Imports  are  taxed.  Every  fam- 
ily that  buys  a  barrel  of  flour  pays  two  dollars  to 
the  government. 

The  roads  and  bridle-paths  in  Jamaica  sj^nbolize 
England ;  they  are  England  clasping  the  island  as 
with  a  many-fingered  hand.  You  w  alk  or  ride  along 
these  superb  imperial  highways  and  look  out  upon 
a  land  semi-savage ;  civilization  under  foot,  and 
barbarism  just  across  the  fence,  —  little  or  no  agri- 

274 


A    LOST    FEBRUARY 

culture  or  fruit  culture,  or  culture  of  any  kind  as  we 
understand  the  word,  except  where  the  great  Fruit 
Companies  have  possession;   the  laridscape  marred 
and  torn,  but  not  subdued  ;    no  open   fields,  no 
smooth  hill-slopes,  rarely  a  well-kept  (garden  or  a  bit 
of  lawn;   rude  fertile  nature  everywhere,  stru(:(;iiiig 
to  shake  off  the  lazy  grasp  of  these  black  children. 
Lazy  they  no  doubt  are.    During  the  three  or  four 
months  of  the  mango  season,  we  were  told,  it  is  very 
difficult  to  get  man  or  woman  to    work.     As  the 
mangoes  grow  every^N^here,  the  people  subsist  upon 
them,  and  life  becomes  a  hoUday.    Hence  the  fruit 
companies  and  sugar  planters  have  to  import  coolie 
labor,  East  Lidiamen,  —  a  feeble  race,  but  faithful 
and  reliable.     We  saw  a  great  gathering  of  these 
people  in  Kingston  living  in  a  large  warehouse  on 
one  of  the  docks.    They  had  worked  out  their  ten 
years,  and  were  awaiting  a  steamer  to  take  them 
back  to  India.    How  homesick  many  of  them  were, 
poor  souls,  and  how  tedious  the  waiting  was  to 
them!    They  were  a  quiet,  picturesque  crowd,  })ut 
very  wary  of  the  camera,  unless  we  first  sprinkled 
them  with  a  little  copper.  When  we  were  sauntering 
through  the  market,  the  Indian  women,  crouched 
by  their  baskets  filled  with  stuff  on   sale,  wouM 
spring  up  and  turn  their  backs  the  moment  they 
saw  the  camera  in  my  son's   hand.    They  seem  & 
much  prouder  and  more  exclusive  race  than  the 
African. 

27,') 


FAR   AND    NEAR 

Just  now  I  called  the  negro  lazy,  though  that 
is  probably  not  strictly  the  right  word.  The  negro 
in  Jamaica  is  childish,  immature,  void  of  any 
serious  purpose  in  life,  rather  than  lazy.  He  is 
haunted  by  no  ideals  :  sufficient  for  the  day  are 
the  mangoes  thereof,  and  why  should  he  fret  and 
struggle?  Those  women  forever  upon  the  road, 
making  long  marches  with  their  burdens,  were  not 
lazy;  they  were  children  that  took  life  lightly  and 
carelessly. 

The  price  of  labor  is  low  in  Jamaica,  yet  any- 
thing is  dear  that  costs  more  than  it  is  worth,  and 
much  of  the  low-priced  labor  is  expensive.  On  one 
of  the  plantations  of  the  United  Fruit  Company  I 
saw  a  coolie  cleaning  the  ground  of  grass  and  weeds 
in  an  orange  orchard  with  a  big  long-handled  hoe 
at  a  rate  for  a  given  area  that  was  more  than  four 
times  the  price  I  could  have  done  it  for  with  a  horse 
and  cultivator.  A  vast  deal  of  hand-work  is  done 
where  we  use  horses  and  machinery. 

Most  of  the  road-making  and  road-mending 
seems  done  by  women  and  girls.  They  are  the 
real  beasts  of  burden.  They  break  up  the  stone  and 
carry  it  in  bags  upon  their  heads  and  dump  it  down 
where  it  is  wanted.  One  day  I  sat  half  an  hour  upon 
the  bank  by  the  roadside,  and  got  myself  covered 
with  ticks,  watching  a  woman  raking  the  broken 
otone  in  place,  while  my  companion  was  photo- 
graphing a  big  cottonwood-tree. 

276 


A    LOST    FEBRUARY 

We  left  Jamaica  on  the  return  trip  the  3cl  of 
March,  just  about  the  time  I  fancy  that  the  birds 
from  our  woods  that  we  had  met  there  were  also 
turning  their  faces  nortliward.  We  readied  home 
on  the  9th,  and  at  sundown  the  carohng  of  the  robins 
from  the  treetops  was  far  more  welcome  tlian  any 
bird  voice  we  heard  in  Jamaica,  not  even  excepting 
that  of  the  solitaire. 


\  ( 


INDEX 


Aqhbleen  Pinnacles,  95. 

Alaska,  journey  to,  l-12'J ;  forests 
and  treeless  regions  of,  81;  cli- 
mates of,  82,  8G. 

Alaska  Peninsula,  voyage  along, 
94-98. 

Albati'oss,  67. 

Algae,  210,  211. 

Amherst  Glacier,  73. 

Anemone,  a  yellow,  114. 

Annette  Island,  29-31. 

Ants,  Jamaican  sand,  254,  255. 

Astragalus,  121,  122. 

August,  characteristics  of,  201- 
214. 

Auklet,  least  {Slvwrhynchus  pri- 
silhis),  106. 

Auklets,  119. 

Bad  Lands  of  Utah,  the,  7. 

Bahamas,  226. 

Balaclava,  Jamaica,  247. 

Bananas,  loading,  271 ;  manner  of 
growth  of,  272,  273;  culture  of, 
273. 

Barry  Glacier,  75,  77. 

Bath,  Jamaica,  271. 

Bats,  247. 

Bear,  Kadiak,  83,  90,  91. 

Bear,  polar,  117,  123. 

Belkofski,  96. 

Bering  Sea,  voyage  on,  101-123. 

Biological  Survey,  U.  S.,  a  party 
of  naturalists  from,  38. 

Birds,  seen  from  the  train,  4  ; 
killed  hy  the  locomotive,  9;  at 
Victoria,  B.  C,  23;  at  Aletlakah- 
tla,  31 ;  at  Fort  Wrangell,  3;{;  <»n 
the  White  Pass,  37;  onGustavus 
Peninsula,  44, 45;  on  Mt.  Wright, 
52;  at  Sitka,  55;  at  Kadiak,  85, 


88,  89;  on  Popof  Island,  M;  ol 
the  tundra,  115,  110;  on  ll.ill  h*- 
land,  119-121;  near  Cajn^  Fox, 
12«;  about  "  Slabsides,"  133-152, 
1.54-156;  present  interest  in,  157; 
the  seeming  decrease  in  the 
numbers  of,  160,  161  ;  parental 
instinct  in,  163  ;  bird-study  in 
the  scliools,  ltV>-16s  ;  dying  of 
apoplexy  and  heart  failure,  ICUj 
profanatiun  of  nests,  ICy;  iii;Uo 
singint;  near  and  on  nest,  171; 
distribution  in  summer  and 
winter,  173;  life  in  winter,  17^ 
181;  feeding  the,  183-1H6;  rapid- 
ity of  lives  of,  186;  ro«isting- 
places  of,  188;  of  August,  2(>t- 
209;  some  strange  watt-r-fowl  in 
Jamaica,  255;  of  Jamaica,  265- 
268. 

Blackberry,  in  Jamaica,  2G3. 

Blackbird,  red-winged.  Hee  Star- 
ling, red-shouldered. 

IJlackbird,  rusty.  Hee  Grackl«, 
rusty. 

Black  Crag,  32. 

Black  Creek.  ^V'(?  Shattega  Creek. 

Black  River,  Jamaica,  243,  247. 

Bladderwort,  horned,  203,  '20L 

Bluebell,  H8. 

Bluebird  {Snilia  niaiU),  161,  163  ; 
its  food  in  winter,  176;  a  noat  in 
the  woods.  216-219, 

Blue  MounLiin  lV':ik,  2.50. 

Blue  Mountain.**,  J.'imaic.n,22rt, 228; 
a  week  among,  247-252, 265 ;  beau- 
ties of,  241.5 ;  2«y. 

Bobolink     (/ktlirhony^x    orytivt 
rus),  160,  2()(.,  207. 

Bogosluf  Islands,  100.  104. 

Bog  Walk,  Jamaica,  '231. 


279 


INDEX 


Bomb  Point,  79. 

Boueset,  climbing,  209. 

Bones*)t,  purple,  209. 

Bone? et,  white,  209. 

Boiigainvillea,  229. 

Bowtltn,  Jamaica,  269-271. 

Boy,  a  winsome  colored,  233. 

Brady,  John  C4reen,  Governor  of 
Alaska,  54. 

Brewer,  Prof.  William  H.,  22,  65, 
92. 

Bryanthus,  08. 

Bryn  Mawr  Glacier,  73. 

Bunting,  hyperborean  snow,  or 
McKay's  snowflake  {Passerina 
nivalis  hyperborea),  120;  song 
of,  120;  nest  of,  123. 

Bunting,  indigo.  See  Indigo-bird. 

Bunting,  lark  {Calamospiza  me- 
lanocorys),  4. 

Bunting,  snow,  or  snowflake  {Pas- 
serina nivalis),  a  part  of  the 
winter,  180 ;  a  flock  of,  180,  181 ; 
attacked  by  hawks  and  shrikes, 
180,  181;  189;  notes  of,  180. 

Bunting,  snow,  or  Fribilof  snow- 
flake  {Passerina  nivalis  toum- 
sendi),  101,  106. 

Buttercup,  251. 

Buzzard,  turkey,  or  turkey  vul- 
ture ( Cathartes  aura),  227,  270. 

Cacti,  257. 

Calipeever,  259. 

Camping-out,    in    Jamaica,   252- 

259. 
Campion,  moss,  52,  53. 
Canyons,  7, 12-14,  17. 
Cape  Fox,  127. 
Cape  Nome,  113. 
Cardinal-flower,  152, 153,  214. 
Cassiope,  88. 
Cattle,  wild,  255. 
Caves,  in  Jamaica,  246,  247. 
Cawein,    Madison    J.,    quotation 

from,  211,  212. 
Cedar-bird,    or    cedar   waxwing 

{Ampelis  cedrorum),  176. 
Chapelton,  Jamaica,  232,  237-239. 
Chasm,  a,  122. 
Chickadee  {Parus  atricapillus),  a 


sitting  bird,  137, 138;  checks  to 
the  increase  of,  138,  139;  107,173, 
174,  176,  177,  183-185;  sleeping- 
places  of,  188,  189;  nest  of,  136, 
137,  215. 

Chickadee,  rufous  -  backed,  or 
chestnut-backed  chickadee  {Par 
rus  rti/escens),  33,  55, 128. 

Chickweed,  121. 

Chipmunk,  154. 

Chippy.    See  .Sparrow,  social. 

Clarence  Straits,  31,  32. 

Clarkia,  17. 

Claytonia,  114, 121. 

Clematis,  wild,  210. 

Clover,  white,  251. 

Cobwebs,  209. 

Cock  Pit  country,  Jamaica,  243, 
246,  247. 

Cocoanuts,  271. 

Cocoanut-trees,  260-262. 

Coffee,  pounding,  232. 

Coleyville,  Jamaica,  244-246. 

Collector,  a  human  weasel,  155. 

Columbia  Glacier,  71. 

Columbia  River,  journey  along, 
18-20. 

Columbine,  in  Alaska,  64. 

Cook  Inlet,  80,  81,  125, 

Coolies,  East  Indian,  in  Jamaica, 
272,  275. 

Coon,  154. 

Cormorant  {Phalacrocorax  sp.), 
119. 

Cottonwood,  233. 

Coville,  Frederick  V.,  22,  65. 

Cowbird  {Molothrus  ater),  notes 
of,  151. 

Cowcatcher,  riding  on  the,  8,  9. 

Coyote,  4,  11. 

Creeper,  brown  {Certhia  familU 
aris  americana),  174. 

Cricket.  See  Tree-cricket. 

Crocodile,  252. 

Crow,  American  {Corvus  brachy- 
rhynchos),  157. 

Crow,  fish  {Corvus  ossifragus),  158, 

Daisy,  ox-eye,  201. 

Dall,*  Dr.  William  H.,  22,  65. 

Davidson  Glacier,  35. 


280 


INDEX 


Dead  Horse  Trail,  37. 

Deer,  25-27. 

Dellenbaugh,  Fred  S.,  22. 

Devereux,  W.  B.,  22,  G5. 

Devil's  club,  28. 

Devil's  Thumb,  33. 

Dipper,    American.      See    Ouzel, 

water. 
Dogs,  in  Jamaica,  232,  260. 
Doran,  Capt.  Peter,  65,  75. 
Douglas  Island,  34. 
Pove,  mourning  {Zenaidura  ma- 

croura),  9. 
Puck,  eider  {Somateria  sp.),  111. 
pucks,  wild,  and   gunners,  148- 

150. 
Puncan,  Rev.  William,  29,  30. 
Putch  Harbor,  98-101,  IW. 

Pagle,  bald  {HaUceetiis  lexicoce- 
phalus),  24,  25;  inspiration  of 
the  presence  of,  154-156;  and 
the  collector,  155 ;  161. 

Pagles,  34. 

Eider.  See  Duck,  eider. 

Elk  Mountains,  the,  5. 

Elliot,  Daniel  G.,  22,  76. 

Emerson,  Prof.  Benjamin  K.,  22, 
66,  108. 

Eskimos,  72 ;  an  encampment  in 
Siberia,  108-111;  at  Port  Clar- 
ence, 112, 113 ;  villages  ruined  by 
whiskey,  118. 

Etolin  Island,  32. 

Ewarton,  Jamaica,  231,  232. 

Fairweather  Range,   63,   56,    67, 

126. 
Farms,  in  the  East  and  in  the 

West,  2,  3. 
Fernow,  Dr.  B.  E.,  22. 
Feras,  tree,  250. 
Finch,  house  (Carpodacics  mexi- 

caniis  frontalis),  15. 
Finch,  rosy,  or  Hepburn's  lenco- 

sticte   (Leticosticte    tephrocotis 

mtoralis),  38,  52,  94,  123. 
Fireflies,  Jamaican.  238. 
Fish,  flying-fish,  224,225;  mullet, 

241 ;  calipeever,  259. 
Fisher,  Dr.  A.  K.,  22. 


Flicker,  northwostem.  See  HiKb- 
hole,  western. 

Flowers,  on  the  plaiiw,  11  ;  on 
Kadiak  Ibland,  88 ;  at  Plover 
Bay,  111;  of  the  tundra  at  Port 
Clarence,  114  ;  on  Hall  and  .St. 
Matthew  lshiud.s,  121,  ll'J;  on 
BUuk  Creek,  152,  ir>3;  of  AugUKt, 
202-204,209,210;  on  Katherine's 
I'eak,  Jamaica,  2.'')1. 

Flycatcher,  Arkans.as,  or  Arkan- 
sas kingbird  {Tyrutimm  ixrtv- 
calls),  15. 

Flycatcher,  great  crested  (3/yi 
archus  crinittis),  138. 

Flying-fish,  224,  225. 

Forest,  a  buried,  50. 

Foresting,  Nature's  manner  of, 
45. 

Forget-me-not,  88,  111. 

Fort  Wrangell,  32,  33. 

Fox,  blue,  71,  124,  125. 

Fox,  Hall  Island  arctic,  123. 

Fox,  red,  154. 

Fox,  silver-black,  125. 

Fox  farms,  71,  72,  124,  125. 

Frankfield,  Jamaica,  239,  242. 

Frederick  Sound,  33. 

Fringed-orchis,  small  purple,  201. 

Fuertes,  Louis  Agassiz,  Va). 

Fulmar,  VAciRciFulmarusylacir 
alls  (/Irii)isrh(i),  124. 

Fungi.   See  Mushrooms. 


Gannett,  Henrj',  22,  62,  76,  80. 

Gardner  River,  272. 

George  W.  Elder,    the   steamer, 
20,    21  ;    breaks    propeller,    75 
caught    in    a  strong    tide,    77 
mending  her  propeller,  77,  78 
strikes  a  rock,  l(i7. 

Geranium,  wild,  at  Kadiak,  88. 

Gerardia,  rose,  203. 

GilTord,  U.  .«lwain.  12."). 

Gilbert,  (J.  K..  2'_',  44,  62.  65. 

Ginger  farming.  243,  244. 

Girl,  a  little,  mistakes  the  author 
for  .Santa  ("laus,  226,  227. 

Glacier  liay.  39,  44. 

Glaciers,  .T.'>,.''>.3.  .^7.  82:  Patterxon, 
33;  Davidson,  36;    Muir,  39-63; 


281 


INDEX 


Morse,  49,  59 ;  Malaspina,  58,  66, 

67  ;  Turner,  59;  Hubbard,  59,  62; 

on  mountain  precipices,  CO,  61, 

73;    Hidden,  62  ;   Nunatak,  62  ; 

Columbia,  71 ;  on  I'ort  Wells,  73, 

74;  Barry,  75,  77;  on  Harriman 

Fiord,    76,  77  ;   Serpentine,   76  ; 

Stairway,  76  ;  Harriman,  77. 
Golden  Grove,  Jamaica,  271,  272. 
Goldfinch,     American    {Astnifja- 

lintis  trlstis),  in  winter,  179;  the 

bird  of  August,  207;   notes  of, 

179  ;  nest  and  eggs  of,  207,  208. 
Gold-seekers,  privations  of,  68-70; 

returning,  124. 
Good,  John,  241,242. 
Gorse,  in  Jamaica,  251. 
Grackle  {Quiscaliis  crassirostris), 

of  Jamaica,  267. 
Grackle,  rusty,  or  rusty  blackbird 

{Eiq^hagus  cai'oluius),  notes  of, 

150. 
Graham  Reach,  26. 
Grass,  in  the  northern  landscape 

and  in  the  tropics,  263. 
Great  Salt  Pond,  252-258. 
Green  River,  7. 
Grenville  Channel,  128. 
Grinnell,   Dr.    George    Bird,    22, 

66. 
Grosbeak,  Kadiak  pine  {Pinicola 

enueleator  flamrmda),  64,  89. 
Grouse,   ruffed   {Bonasa   umbel- 

lus),  189. 
Gulls,  75,  119. 

Gunning  for  ducks,  148-150, 
Gustavus  Peninsula,  44,  45. 

Haenke  Island,  63. 

Hall  Island,  118-121. 

Hares,  12, 

Harriman,  Edward  H.,  1,  10,  21, 
65,  75,  76  ;  kills  a  Kadiak  bear, 
90,  91  ;  107-109. 

Harriman  Alaska  Expedition, 
1-129;  its  composition,  1;  its 
outfit  and  personnel,  21,  22  ;  so- 
cial life  and  entertainments  of, 
65,  66;  celebrates  the  Fourth  of 
July,  92. 

Uarriman  Fiord,  7&-77,  80. 


Harriman  Glacier  77. 

Harvard  Glacier,  73. 

Hawk,  broad-winged  (Buteo  plor 

typterus),  cry  of,  158,  159;  nest 

and  young  of,  158,  159. 
Hawk,   Cooper's  {Accipiter  coo- 

2j>'rU),  irj8. 
Hawk,    duck   {Falco  peregrinus 

anaturti),  158. 
Hawk,    red-tailed  {Buteo   borea- 

lis),  157,  251. 
Hawk,    sharp-shinned  (Accipiter 

velox),  158. 
Hawk,   sparrow    (Falco    sparve- 

rius),  158. 
Hawks,  9,  157, 158;  in  August,  208, 

209. 
Hawkweed,  orange-colored,  202. 
Hector's  River,  246. 
Heron,   green   (Butorides   vires^ 

cens),  237. 
Hidden  Glacier,  62. 
Highhole,  western,  or  northwest- 
ern flicker  (Colaptes  ca/er  satur 

ratinr),  23, 
Hix,  Colonel,  243, 
Howling  Valley,  43,  44, 
Hubbard  Glacier,  59,  62, 
Hudson   River,  a   house  by,  131, 

132;   algai  in,  210,  211;   August 

on,  213,  214. 
Hummingbird,     long -tailed,     or 

"  doctor  "  (Aithurus  polytvius), 

2G8. 
Hummingbird,  mango  (Lampor- 

nis  mango),  268. 
Hummingbird,  rufous  (Selaspho' 

rus  ru/us),  128, 

Iliuliuk,  98. 

Indian  Point,  112. 

Indian  River,  55. 

Indians,  Alaskan,  28 ;  at  Metlakah- 

tla,  29,  30;  characteristics  of,  30, 

31 ;  an  encampment  of,  63,  64 ; 

summer  life  of,  63,  64;  a  deserted 

village  of,  127. 
Indigo-bird,    or   indigo   bunting 

{Cyanospiza  cyanea),  song  of, 

205. 
Iris,  88. 


282 


INDEX 


Irrigation,  15. 
iBanotski  Volcano,  97,  98. 

Jacob's  ladder,  88, 

Jaeger  {Slercorarhis  sp.),  64,  121. 

Jamaica,  visit  to,  2'J3-277  ;  a  coun- 
try cursed  with  perpetual  sum- 
mer, 223;  arrival  at,  22G;  road- 
Sides  in,  228,  229;  streams  in, 
230-232;  roads  in,  233,  274;  stars 
in,  249,  256  ;  hospitality  in,  253  ; 
woods  in,  2G2,  2G3;  grasses  in, 
2<>3 ;  leaves  of  the  trees  in,  204 ; 
the  landscape  in,  204,  205;  mam- 
mals of,  265,  269;  birds  of,  265- 
268  ;  future  of,  273  ;  taxation  in, 
273,  274;  agriculture  in,  274,  275; 
labor  in,  275,  276 ;  road-making 
in,  276 ;  return  from,  277.  See 
also  Negroes,  Jamaican. 

Jay,  blue  {Cyanocitta  cristata), 
thieving  propensity  of,  166,  167; 
183-185. 

Jay,  Steller's  {Cyanocitta  stel- 
leri),  33,  128. 

John  Crow  Mountains,  269. 

Joseph,  a  colored  servant,  248. 

Judas  Vale,  Jamaica,  236,  237. 

Junco,  Oregon  {Junco  hyemalis 
oreganus),  33,  45. 

Juneau,  34,  126. 

Kachemac  Bay,  80. 

Kadiak,  the  village,  85-87, 124. 

Kadiak  Island,  81-92,  124. 

Katherino's  Peak,  248-251. 

Katydid,  208. 

Keeler,  Charles  A.,  66,  91,  92. 

Kelly,  Captain,  64. 

Kendal,  Jamaica,  ^43. 

Kingbird,  gray  (Tyrannus  domi- 

nicetisis),  267. 
Kinglet,  golden-crowned  {Regulus 

satrapa),  174,  178,  183,  184. 
Kinglet,  golden-crowned  {liegiclus 

satrapa  subsp.),  45,  55,  128. 
Kinglet,    ruby-crowned  {liegidus 

calendula),    rivalries     of     the 

males,  178,  179. 
Kinglet,   ruby-crowned   {Regulus 

calendula  subsp.),  45. 


Kingston,  a  wlntorday  In,  227,228; 
231,  247;  seen  from  Kalhcriue'a 
IVak,  248;  252;  a  dull,  hot,  unin- 
viting place,  'JTiO  ;  tho  r<K)st«'ni 
of,  259,  200  ;  the  dogs  of,  ::00; 
275. 

Kling-kling,  230. 

Kondakoir,  Strpan,  9L 

Kukak  Bay,  82,  93. 

Lady's-slijtper,  at  Kadiak,  88. 

Lady's- tresses  {.Spiranlhcs  cer- 
nua),  204. 

Laramie  plains,  the,  5. 

Lark,  horned  {Otocorls  alpcstrU 
subsp.),  4,  9,  12. 

Lark,  i)rairie  homed  (Otocorls 
aljicstrls  praticola),  165,  16G. 

Larkspur,  11. 

Leucosticte,  Hepburn's.  See 
Finch,  rosy. 

Lice,  grass,  229,  230. 

Lizards,  in  Jamaica,  228. 

Locomotive,  riding  on,  8,  9. 

Logwood,  233. 

Long  Island,  near  Kadiak,  124, 
125. 

Longspur,  Lapland,  or  Alaska 
longspur  (Ca/car/?/5  lajyponiexia 
alaticensis),  98,  90 ;  versos  ad- 
dressed to,  99;  100,  HI,  115;  song 
of,  98,  99,  120. 

Loosestrife,  purple,  152,  153,  209, 
210. 

Lowe  Inlet,  27. 

Lupine,  11,  10,  64,88. 

Lynn  Canal,  35. 

Machete,  the  ubiquitous,  249.  2.'iO. 
Magpie,   black-billed  {J'ica  pica 

hudsonia),  16,  85,  125. 
Malaspina  (Ilacier,  ."W,  06,  67. 
Meadow-beauty,  or  rhexia,  202. 
Meadow  lark,  western  (SturnfUa 

magnu  mglecta),\2\  song  of,  4. 
Merriam,  Dr.  C.  Hart,  22. 
Metlakahtia,  29-31. 
Middleton  Island,  67. 
:Milbank  Sound.  26. 
Milkweed,  sw.amp,  209. 
Mill,  an  old  sugar,  242. 


283 


INDEX 


Mines,  the  Treadwell,  34. 

Mirage,  a,  93. 

Moeliingbird,  Antillean    {Mmius 

2^oiy(/lottos  orplieus),    song   of, 

245,  25.5,  256,  268. 
Mongoose,  269. 
Morning-glory,  wild,  in  Jamaica, 

229. 
Morse  Glacier,  49,  50. 
Mosquitoes,  of  the  tundra,  115;  in 

Jamaica,  255. 
Mountain-climbing   in    Jamaica, 

248-2.51. 
Mountain  peak,  sublimity  of  a, 

58,  59. 
Mt.  Fairweather,  53. 
Mt.  Iliamna,  80,  81. 
Mt.  Palmei-ston,  25. 
Mt.  Redoubt,  80. 
Mt.  St.  Elias,  58,  125,  126. 
Mt.  Vancouver,  03. 
Mt.  Whipple,  32. 
Mt.  Wright,  51. 
Muir,  John,  20,  22,  39,  43,  44,  66,  76, 

80. 
Muir  Glacier,  39-53. 
Multnomah  Falls,  18-20. 
Murre,     Pallas's    {Uria     lomvia 

arra),  103,  119,  120. 
Murrelet,   marbled  (Brachyram- 

pluis  niarmorattis),  75. 
Mushrooms,  211-213. 

Nature,  in  the  tropics,  230,  262, 
264;  the  fauged  side  of  tropical, 
257. 

Negroes,  Jamaican,  homes  of,  233, 
234;  on  the  road,  234,  244;  237; 
going  to  market,  239-241,  244; 
photographing,  240,  241 ;  John 
Good  and  his  family,  241,  242  ; 
returning  from  market,  242;  on 
Sunday,  243;  Joseph,  a  servant, 
248  ;  at  work,  271 ;  laziness  of, 
275;  childishness  of,  276  ;  women 
and  girls  the  real  beasts  of  bur- 
den, 276. 

Nelson,  Rev.  Dr.  George  F.,  66. 

New  Castle,  Jamaica,  stay  at,  247- 
252,  265. 

Nunatak  Glacier,  62. 


Nuthatch  (Sitta  sp.),  173,  174. 
Nuthatch,  red-bellied (ASittacaTio- 
doisis),  177. 

Opossum,  154. 

Orca,  68,  77-79. 

Orchis.   See  Fringed-orchis. 

Oregon,  journey  through,  17. 

Oriole    (Icterus    leucopteryx)    of 

Jamaica,  267. 
Oriole,    Baltimore    {Icterus    gal- 

biila),  dying  of  grief,  169;  206; 

nest  and  young  of,  168,  169. 
Oriole,  orchard  {Icterus  S2ntrius), 

markings  of,  167,  168  ;  notes  of, 

107,  168;  nest  of,  167,  168. 
Otter,  153,  154. 
Ouzel,  water,  or  American  dipper 

(Cinclus  mexicanus),  song   of, 

55. 
Oven-bird  (Seiunis  aurocapillus), 

appearance  of,  192;  265;  flight- 
song  of,  143,   144,  nest  of,  191, 

192. 
Owl,   screech   {Megascops    asio), 

mobbed  by  small  birds,  177. 
Owl,  snowy  {Nyctea  nyctea),  nest 

of,  121. 
Oxen,  East   Indian,  in  Jamaica, 

272. 
Oxford  Cave,  246,  247. 
Oyster-catcher,   black  {Hcemaio- 

2)us  bachmani),  25,  75. 

Palache,  Dr.  Charles,  22,  44. 
Palms,    258  ;     cocoanut,    260-262 ; 

characteristics  of,  260,  261. 
Parrots,  green,  237. 
Patterson  Glacier,  33 
Paviof  Volcano,  95. 
Pedicularis,  114,  122. 
Pelican,  brown  (Pelecanus  ocdr 

dcntalis),  252,  259,  271. 
Phalaroi)es,  24. 
Phlox,  11. 
Phoebe-bird  or  phoebe  (Sayornig 

phcebe),  204;  nest  of,  141. 
Photographing   in  Jamaica,    240, 

241,  272,  275. 
Pinnacles,  the,  Alaska,  32. 
Pipit,  American,  or  titlark  {An- 


284 


INDEX 


thus   pensilvanicus),    37,    101; 

song  of,  52 ;  nest  of,  62. 
Plover,  golden  (Charadrius  do- 

viinicus),  116;  notes  of,  115. 
Plover  Bay,  108-111. 
Poets,  mistakes  of,  204,  206. 
Police  otticer,    a   Jamaican,    238, 

239. 
Pond-lily,  152,  153,  203. 
Poplar,  Lombardy,  16. 
Popof  Island,  9-i. 
Poppy,  yellow,  106,  111,  122. 
Port  Antonio,  226,  227. 
Port  Clarence,  112-117. 
Port    Henderson,    Jamaica,   252, 

253. 
Port  Morant,  Jamaica,  269. 
Port  Royal,  Jamaica,  252. 
Port  Wells,  73-77. 
'Possum.  See  Opossum. 
Pribilof  Islands,  104-106. 
Price  River,  8. 
Primrose,  111,  114. 
Prince  of  Wales  Island,  32. 
Prince  William  Sound,  66,  68-80, 

82. 
Prospector,  a,  in  Alaska,  72,  73. 
Ptarmigan  {Lagopus  sp.).  75. 
Ptarmigan,  white-tailed  {Lagopxis 

leucurus),  52. 
Puffin,  119. 

Quail,  Spanish,  of  Jamaica,  a  tan- 
ager  {Spindalis  nigricephala), 
267. 

Queen  Charlotte  Sound,  26. 

Quit,  blue,  268;  nest  of,  236. 

Quit,  grass,  song  of,  268 ;  nest  of, 
268. 

Quit,  orange,  nest  of,  268. 

Rabbit,  gray,  154;  nest  and  young 

of,  219-222. 
Raccoon.   Sec  Coon. 
Radcliffe  Glacier,  73. 
Raven,   northern  (Cnrvuft    corar 

princijxilis),  28;   abundance  in 

Alaska,  31 ;  91 ;  notes  of,  31,  55. 
Redstart,    American   (Setophar/a 

ruticiUa),  45,  265. 
Rhexia.  See  Meadow-beauty. 


Rhododendron,  a  dwarf,  W. 

Ridgway,  Uobert,  SJ,  45,  lul. 

Rio  Cobre,  231. 

Kio  .Minho,  232.  2:i'{,  237,  240-243. 

Hitter,  Prof.  William  E.,  22,  G5, 
66. 

River,  living  on  the  bank  of  a 
great,  131,  132. 

Robin,  AuK'rioan  (Afenila  viiyrti' 
tor  id),  at  Shibsides,  lXi-\M\  144; 
young  fed  by  a  chipping  upar- 
row,  103, 104;  176;  nest  and  young 
of,  134-130. 

Robin,  Oregon.  See  Thrush,  va- 
ried. 

Robin,  western  {Mrrvda  migra- 
toria  propiiupia),  45. 

Rocky  Mountains,  the,  crossing, 
4,5. 

Roses,  wild,  124. 

Russell  Fiord,  59-63. 

Sagebrush,  6,  11,  12,  15,  16. 

St.  Elias  Range,  57,  58,  66, 125. 

St.  Lawrence  Island,  117,  118. 

St.  Matthew  Island,  118,  121-123. 

St.  Paul,  Kadiak.  85. 

St.  Paul  Island.  1(H-106. 

Salmon,  canning,  78  ;  seining,  126, 

127. 
Salmon-berries,  126,  128. 
Sand  Point,  94. 
Sandpiper,  Aleutian   (Arqiiatolla 

couesi),  call  of,  120. 
San  Salvador,  226. 
Saunders,  De  Alton,  22,  65. 
Saxifrage,  ss,  111,  114,  121. 
Seal,  fur,  1(>4-106. 
Sea-lion,  103,  104. 
Sea.sons,  changes  of  the,  264. 
Seattle,  20,  128. 
Sensitive  plant,  234.  235. 
S«'ri)entin(*  CJlacifr,  76. 
Seymour  Narmws,  24. 
Sliattcga  Creek,  the  stream  and 

its    wild    neighbors,    147  ir»3  ;  a 

bhu-bird's  n.'st  on.  215  219. 
Ship.     See  (leorge  W.  Elder. 
Shishablin  Volcano,  97,  98. 
Shooting-star,  114. 
Shoshone,  9,  16. 


285 


INDEX 


Shoshone  Falls,  visit  to,  9-14. 
Shrike  {La n his  sp.),  attacking  a 

flock  of  snow  buntinp:s,  181, 
Shumagin  Islands,  94, 95,  124. 
Siberia,  visit  to,  107-112. 
Silene,  122. 

Siskin,  pine  {Spinus  piiius),  128. 
Sitka,  54-56. 
Skagway,  35,  36. 
Skagway  River.  36. 
"Slabsides,"    the    location     and 
building  of,  131,  132;  life  at,  133- 
156. 
Smith  Glacier,  73. 
Snake  River,  9-17. 
Snowbird,  hyperborean.   See  Bun- 
ting, hyperborean  snow. 
Snowflake.     See  Bunting,  snow. 
Snowflake,   McKay's.     See   Bun- 
ting, hj7)erborean  snow. 
Snowflake,  Pribilof .  See  Bunting, 

snow. 
Solitaire  {Myadestes   soUtnrius), 
appearance  of,  2G6;  notes  of,  245, 
26G,  267. 
Southern  Cross,  the,  256. 
Sparrow,  English  (Passer  domes- 
tints),  its  effect  on  the  abun- 
dance of  native  birds,  161;  im- 
posing on  a  do^vny  woodpecker, 
161,  162;  getting  rid  of,  162;  an 
instance  of  persistence,  163. 
Sparrow,  fox  ( PassereZZa  iliaca), 

116. 
Sparrow,  golden-crowned  {Zono- 
trichia  coronata),  37,  94;  song 
of,  52,  89. 
Sparrow,  sage  {Amphispisa  belli 

nevadensis),  12. 
Sparrow,  social,  or  chipping  spar- 
row {SplzeUa,  socialis),  feeding 
young  robins,  163,  16-t;  nest  of, 
134. 
Sparrow,  song  (Melospiza  cinerea 

melodia),  134. 
Sparrow,  song  (Melospiza  cinerea 
subsp.),  45;  varjing  tj'pes  of, 
in  Alaska,  85 ;  94  ;  song  of,  85 ; 
nest  of,  31. 
Sparrow,  Townsend's  fox,  or 
Townsend's  sparrow  (PowsereZZa  I 


iliaca  nnalaschcensis),  33,  94; 
song  of,  52. 
Sparrow,  western  savanna  {Pas- 
so'ciUvs  saiidwichensis  alaudi- 
niis),  45,  115. 
Sparrow,  western   tree  (Spizella 

monticola  ochracea),  116. 
Sparrow,    white-crowned    (Zono- 
trirhia   lencophrys  subsp.),  23. 
Sparrow,    white-throated    {Zono- 

trichia  alblcollis),  205. 
Sparrow,  yellow-winged,  or  grass- 
hopper sparrow  {i'otiirniculus 
savannaruin  passerinus),  song 
of,  169-171;  nest  and  eggs  of,  169- 
171. 
Spider-webs,  209. 
Spruce,  forests  about  Sitka,  55. 
Stairway  G  lacier,  76. 
Starling,  red-shouldered,  or  red- 
winged     blackbird      {Agelaius 
p)h(£niceus),  song  of,  150, 151. 
Strawberries,  wild,    in  Jamaica, 

251. 
Strawberries,  Yakutat,  125, 126. 
Sugar-cane,  a  substitute  for  water, 

235. 
Sugar  plantation,  a,  236,  237. 
Sunflower,  wild,  16. 
Sunsets,  25,  32. 
Swallow,  barn  {Hirxindo  erythro- 

gastra),  62,  63,  85,  206, 
Swallow,  cliff  (Petrochelidon  lu- 

nifrons),  18,  160,  206. 
Swallow,  tree  (Iridoprocne  bico- 

lor),  206. 
Swallow,  violet-backed  (Tachyci- 

neta  thalassina  lepida),  13. 
Swallows,  poets  and,  206. 
Swan  (Olor  sp.),  117. 
Swift,   chimney   (Chcetura  pelor 
gica),  a  captured  bird,  140;  out- 
riding storms,  140, 141;  nest  and 
young  of,  139,  140. 
Swift,  palm  (Cypselus  phoenico- 

bivs),  228, 
Swift,  white- throated  {J'eronautei 

melayioleucus) ,  13, 
Swimming,  in  Jamaica,  241,  258. 


Tanager.    See  Quail,  Spanish. 


286 


INDEX 


Tanager,  scarlet  {Piranga  ery- 
thromelas),  144. 

Tattler,  wandering  {Ileteractitis 
incanus),  75. 

Tern,  Arctic  {Sterna  paradiscea), 
&4,  G7,  75. 

Thrush,  Alaska  hermit  {Hylocir 
chla  guttata),  45,  72,  80,  89,  S)4; 
song  of,  3G,  52,  Gl. 

Thrush,  gray-cheeked  {Ilylocichla 
allcke^,  89,  IIG. 

Thrush,  hermit  {llylocichla  gut- 
tata pallasii),  143,  161. 

Thrush,  russet-backed  (//i/^oe/c/i/a 
listulata),  23,  31,  33,  45,  55,  128. 

Thrush,  varied,  or  Oregon  robin 
(Ixoreus  ncevius),  55;  verses  ad- 
dressed to,  89  ;  song  of,  45,  89,  91. 

Thrush,  wood  {Hylodchla  muste- 
Ihia),  song  of,  144. 

Ticks,  in  Jamaica,  229,  230. 

Titlark.    See  Pipit,  American. 

Tlinkit  Indians,  29-31. 

Toad,  126. 

Tody,  green  ( Todus  t^ridis),  267. 

Tongass  Narrows,  126. 

Totem  poles,  127,  128. 

Tree-cricket,  208. 

Trelease,  Dr.  "William,  22. 

Tropics,  nature  in  the,  230,  2G2- 
264;  no  chance  for  poetry  in  the, 
264. 

Trumpet-weed,  209. 

Tundra,  72,  113-116. 

Turner,  Rev.  Mr.,  a  Baptist  cler- 
gj-raan,  244,  245. 

rumer  Glacier,  59. 

Unalaska  Island,  98-103, 124. 

Unimak  Island,  97,  98. 

United  Fruit  Company,  the,  272, 

273,  275,  276. 
Uyak  Bay,  83,  W. 

Vancouver  Island,  22-26. 

Vassar  Glacier,  73. 

Veery,  or  Wilson's  thrush  {HyJn- 

cichla  fuscescens),  song  of,  144. 
Vegetable  Hades,  a,  257,  258. 
Vegetation  in  the  far  north,  79, 

80. 


Vermontcr,  a,  at  Kadl.'ik,  8«. 

Victoria,  B.  C.  'il,  23. 

Violets,  in  Ala-ska,  04. 

Vireo,  riMl-t'yed  (  yireo  oliv<ic«\u\ 

song  of,  2(1'). 
Virgin  Bay,  71,  77. 
Volcanoes,  Alxskan,  95-98. 
Vulture,    turkey.     See    Buzzard, 

turkey. 

Wagtail,  Siberian  y eWov  ( Rudyte* 
Jlacus  leucostriutus),  111. 

Walrus  Island,  108. 

Warbler,  black  and  white  creep- 
ing  {Mniotilta  varia),  205;  nest 
of,  142. 

Warbler,  Canada  ( Wilsonia  cana- 
densis), 152,  205. 

Warbler,  lutescent  {/Irlmintho- 
pliila  cclafa  lutescent),  33,  45. 

Warbler,  Nashville  (Ihlmint/io- 
p/iila  ruhricapilla),  141. 

Warbler,  Avorm-eating  (Ilrlmin- 
thcrus  verm  i varus),  in  the  cabin, 
142;  song-llight  of,  142,  143;  ap- 
pearance of,  199  ;  songs  of,  142- 
141,  l'.X);  nest  of,  197-199. 

Warbler,  yellow  {/Jetulroica 
wstiva  subsp.>,  23,  64,  94. 

Washington  (the  State),  journey 
through,  17. 

Wa  te  r-l  i  1  y .    See  l»on  d-1  i  1  y . 

Waters,  "  blossoming  "  of.  210. 

Water-thrush,  large-billed,  or 
Louisiana  wator-thrusb  (Sriit- 
rus  mot  aril  In),  ajipearancL"  and 
habits  of,  192,  193  ;  notes  of,  151, 
192,  193;  nest  of,  151,  152,  191- 
197. 

Water-thrush,  New  York  (.9^/wn<* 
uovcboracensis),  192  ;  song  of, 
151. 

Waxwing,  cedar.   See  Cedar-bird. 

Wea-sel.  l.>4. 

Wellesley  (Glacier.  73. 

West,  tlio,  farms  an«l  farmhou«ei 
in,  2.  3;  geology  of,  8. 

Wbal.'s.  .33. 

Whaling  Meet.  a.  112.  11.1. 

Whip-poor-will  (Antro»tnmua  fo- 
cij'vru6),  a  muther  and  yuung« 


287 


INDEX 


146 ;  song  of,  145,  146,  205;  eggs 
and  young  of,  147. 

White  Pass,  36-38. 

Woman,  an  old,  and  her  eggs,  240, 
241. 

Woodchuck,  154. 

Wood  Island,  91. 

Woodpecker,  downy  (Dryobates 
pubescens  medianns),  173,  174, 
183  ;  relations  of  male  and  fe- 
male in  winter,  186, 187 ;  court- 
ship of,  187 ;  mystery  of  hopping 
up  and  down  trunks,  188. 

Woodpecker,  hairy  {Dryobates 
viUostis),  139. 

WToodpecker,  Harris's  {Dryobates 
vUlosus  harrisii),  33. 


Worthy  Park,  236,  237. 

Wrangell  Bay,  33. 

Wren,  house  {Troglodytes  aedon\ 

163. 
Wren,  western  winter  {Olbioi-chi- 

his  hiemalis  pacijicus),  23 ;  song 

of,  91. 
Wren,  winter   {Olbiorchllus   hie- 

malis),  in  winter,  174-176 ;  song 

of,  143,  144. 
Wyoming,  the  plains  in,  5,  6. 

Yakutat,  58. 

Yakutat  Bay,  57-66,  82,  125,  126. 
Yale  Glacier,  73. 

Yellow- throat,     Maryland     ((700- 
thlypis  trichas  subsp.),  266. 


i!  lU 


North  Caro,^ 

FAR  AND  NEAR 


